For Good: First Times
by Baka-Sensei
Summary: A look at House and Wilson, and how their relationship developed. PreHouse to season one. M for language. A look at House and Wilson, and how their relationship developed.
1. Chapter 1

Hokay. So this is my first House fic. I have some more Rent fics I haven't posted yet that will be posted shortly, so I apologize to my RENTfic readers for the delay. They should be up tomorrow (hopefully). For now, House is my current biggest obsession, and this ficbunny was gnawing away at my stomach. It was inspired by a wonderful video on YouTube by MysticTwilight. You can find the link in my profile. Hope you enjoy!

**Small Spoiler for _Histories_ and _All In_. **

**Disclaimer: **I don't own House, yaddah, yaddah, yaddah. :Insert clever comment here:

**ANOTHER Disclaimer: **I am an English major. Any reference to medical stuff is the product of me looking up random crap online that I still didn't understand at all when I put it in the story. I apologize in advance. Also, this story is set Pre-House, circa 1994-95 in the first few sections of the first chapter (you'll see how years go by so quickly:tear:). House is un-crippled (word?), Cuddy has just been instated as Dean of Medicine, and I probably screwed-up the timeline a little. I know there are some sources that say House started working at PPTH _after _he got all fucked in the leg, but there are other places that say he worked there before, and I prefer the latter for this fic. I hope you can suspend disbelief if I did screw up, and that it won't throw you. I'm sorry again for any inconvenience in your ficcage enjoyment. _  
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Cheers. _  
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* * *

The first time James Wilson heard of Gregory House was a week after he'd started working in the oncology department of Princton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. House was something of a legend even though he'd only been working in diagnostics at PPTH for a few months. Apparently he had a tendency to transfer from hospital to hospital because no one could handle him for too long. 

The worst James heard was that House was a drug addict, a sexual predator, someone who should be locked up in the psych ward, a man with no moral conscience whatsoever. The best James heard was that House was an asshole with a wit too quick for his own good. That by itself would have only been enough to make James keep an eye out for House and avoid him if necessary.

What caught James' attention, however, were the stories surrounding the man. He was constantly pulling last-minute miracles out of a hat, saving patients with seemingly insane diagnoses. House did things his way, took crazy risks constantly and to hell with the rule book. And while most of this seemed ethically dubious he actually pulled it off almost 100 percent of the time. In spite of everything (even House's own efforts) he was a good doctor.

If that weren't enough, outside of his brilliant diagnostic work, House terrorized most of the hospital staff and patients. He avoided clinic duty like the plague, and when he _was _in the clinic he belittled every person who was unlucky enough to be stuck in an exam room with him. More than half the people James knew who worked at the hospital, from nurses to department heads to board members, were actively nursing a grudge for the man, and the other half had just managed to escape House's notice so far. He reportedly had no friends and liked it that way. There was a rumor going around that he'd been living with some woman for two years, but it was widely debunked as just a rumor. People couldn't stand to work with House for more than an hour at a time; how in God's name could someone stand to _live_ with him?

The moment James really knew he'd be in trouble if he ever crossed paths with House was when he caught himself thinking some of the stories about what House had done were funny. Okay. Not just funny. Fucking _hilarious. _He had to bite back a smile and a laugh every time he heard the latest gossip. Luckily, people misinterpreted his twisted face as disgust displayed at House's outrageous actions. Everyone _else _seemed to be disgusted by House, so why was James having problems with it?

It was just… House did and said everything that everyone _wished _they could do and say because he didn't give a damn what people thought. James envied that kind of freedom. What he wouldn't give to tell certain annoying patients where to shove it, to treat certain residents like the idiots they were, to never have to apologize for things he _shouldn't_ have to apologize for.

So he let himself chuckle in private over the latest comment House had made about the new Dean of Medicine's low-cut blouses. How he'd had a subscription to _Playboy_ delivered to Dr. Crawford's office with a sticky note that read, "This is where _I _find the meaning of life," when the surgeon had hinted for the hundredth time that House would lead a happier existence if he accepted Jesus as his savior. The way he'd tricked nurse Thompson into admitting she'd been stealing from nurse Dullinger's stash of imported coffee and then gotten her to share some with him.

It was a good thing James had never met House in person. He was already sure getting involved with the guy could only mean trouble. Even if it would be amusing as hell getting there.

* * *

The first time Gregory House heard of James Wilson was a week after Wilson had published his ground-breaking paper on the shocking prevalence of doctors misdiagnosing cancer. Greg was intrigued because unlike most papers on the topic, Wilson's didn't deal with doctors _not_ diagnosing the cancer in time, but mistaking a completely different underlying condition _for_ cancer. It focused on a patient suffering from Erdheim-Chester disease who had been incorrectly diagnosed with leukemia by three different doctors over a period of two years. 

That, in and of itself, would have only thrown Greg for a few seconds. From his experience most doctors, oncologists especially, only worked within their specialization and didn't really give a damn about any medical knowledge that wouldn't directly apply to their work. So an oncologist writing about something that _wasn't_ cancer, even if it had been misdiagnosed as such, was worth an eyebrow raise and a few moments contemplation, but not much more.

But it really got interesting when he found out that though there had been no allusions to it at all in the paper, Wilson had been the one to diagnose Erdheim-Chester disease after only three days of having the patient under his care. Humility was something that Gregory House did not understand on any level. He had never thought of it as something to be admired, and the fact remained that doctors, _all doctors_, were not humble individuals. Their job was to save lives. That was enough to give anyone a God-complex. What was it about this Wilson that made him different? He was an anomaly, and Greg loved figuring out anomalies.

So he started keeping an ear open for information about Wilson. And like a really good diagnostics case, the more he learned the more complicated it got and the less he knew for sure. Wilson had finished his pre-med degree in two years, at the age of 28 he was the youngest oncologist on staff by ten years, and four months after publishing his paper he was promoted to Assistant Department Head of Oncology. All of this pointed to Wilson being a workaholic with a higher than average IQ (Greg refused to give anyone but himself the title of 'genius' lightly). Most likely he was one of those bookish types with a marked lack of social skills and possibly some sort of subtle disfigurement. Probably had a mommy and/or daddy who had pushed him past his limit as a kid. When Greg heard he was Jewish too, he betted on mommy.

Then Greg started listening to subtler channels of information, the whispers in the hallways and conversations of nurses in the cafeteria, and his hypothesis was blown right out of the water. Apparently not only was Wilson a brilliant doctor, he was genuinely liked by everyone who knew him. Greg overheard a couple of the nurses calling him charming, good-looking, charismatic. One of the more ridiculous rumors alleged that a family had _thanked _him when he'd told them their son had died.

Apparently he had eyes that would put a basset hound to shame, a smile that made women melt into their shoes and oh, the _hair. _Greg had to stop himself from outwardly gagging and giving away the fact that he was eavesdropping. Wilson had just gotten divorced from his first wife because he'd had (reportedly) at least three affairs during the course of their two-year-long marriage, and now no one was sure which of four different women was the one he was _officially _seeing.

Reading between the lines Greg saw that no one _really _knew anything about Wilson. Sure, they had the stats on his extensive love-life, his obvious prowess in the medical field, the shallow observations on how he talked, what he looked like. But the most personal piece of information anyone had on the guy was that he was Jewish, which wasn't _that _personal because even with Wilson that fact seemed to be somewhat of a running joke. He was a guy who seemed outwardly to care about people, went out of his way to help, did everything he could to save a patient like he took it personally, but he never let anyone get that close to him. All he had were colleagues and acquaintances but no real friends.

He was a contradiction in terms. Greg was fascinated. He started looking out for a moment to begin gleaning first-hand observations. This Wilson guy had to eat lunch sometime.

* * *

The first time Gregory House talked to James Wilson was two weeks later. He was avoiding clinic duty, per usual, and was taking his second lunch break of the day. As he paid for his second meal (which was obscenely over-priced and he made sure to complain about it loudly) he felt the cliché chill on the back of his neck that told him he was being watched. He turned just in time to see a man in a pristine lab-coat dart his eyes back to his food. The man stabbed at his salad nervously. 

Greg bit back a maniacal grin. He'd thought some of it had been exaggeration, but those puppy-dog eyes and perfectly coifed hair could only mean one thing. He'd just gotten sized up by James Wilson. He'd been looking for an opening to mess with the guy, and now seemed as good a time as any. Better, in fact. His day had been sort of dragging, and any distraction was welcome.

He walked over to Wilson's table and dropped his tray with a loud clatter, sprawling in the chair opposite him without any invitation. A quick glance to his now-dining-partner's ID-tag confirmed his identity. Wilson looked at him quizzically when he simply stared for a moment, not even bothering to introduce himself.

"So," Greg began, "what's it feel like to be the resident oncologist boy wonder?"

Greg was surprised when Wilson wasn't thrown off by the abrupt question, but simply shrugged and raised his eyes to look at him.

"I don't know," he said slowly with a boyish smile. "What's it feel like to be the resident walking malpractice suit?"

Greg had to stop his eyebrows from shooting to his hairline. This kid knew who he was and was still baiting him? Either he was just plain stupid, or this could turn out to be more interesting than he'd previously hoped.

"A lot more fun, I imagine," Greg said. "More booze, more drugs, more hookers… all the stuff you watch on TV after you've spent a boring dinner with the in-laws. Plus the new Dean with the perky boobs is hot as hell when she's pissed off."

"Ex-in-laws now," Wilson corrected, "and aren't we getting a little ahead of ourselves? We haven't even been properly introduced."

"Well, I know who you are, and you obviously know who I am," House stated with a 'Well, duh!' look.

"Hmm, you do seem like the type who does away with all the social niceties. Besides, _everyone _knows who you are."

"It's hard being the coolest guy on campus," Greg said with an exaggerated sigh.

"Really? I thought it had something to do with you being a bastard to anything that moves."

"Aw, damn. And here I thought everyone was enamored with my chiseled features and tight ass." Wilson snorted.

"Forgive me for overlooking your better qualities."

"Don't apologize. It's your loss for overlooking them," Greg said with a lascivious grin. " And now that you've already observed what an utterly unrepentant son of a bitch I am, I can get straight to the point."

"There's an actual point to all this? I hoped that we were just having a nice conversation," Wilson deadpanned.

"You'll find that everything I do has a reason, Doctor Wilson."

"My grandmother used to say that about God. Are you omnipresent too? What other god-like abilities do you have?"

"Technically, since God doesn't exist _he'd_ have _me_-like abilities," Greg observed.

"And they said you were arrogant."

"Don't pay attention to what they said. Their logic is faulty, anyway. Let's get back to the point, which is in the form of a question in this case. How did the golden boy of oncology know what to look for to diagnose Erdheim-Chester disease? Never mind that your type shouldn't even know what it is."

"Is this one of those riddles you found in the Sunday comics?" Wilson asked with a raised eyebrow.

"Read it in a magazine, actually. Right next to the article on five new ways to please your man in bed. You got an answer?"

"I had a hunch," Wilson said with a shrug.

"Only I'm allowed to get hunches. Wrong answer."

"Despite what you may believe it's possible that there are doctors out there besides you who know what the hell they're doing."

"Wrong answer again. The fact that you didn't write in your paper that you were the one to diagnose it suggests one of two things. Either you actually _didn't _diagnose it and are trying to take credit for it on the gossip circuit without risking pissing off the guy who did diagnose it by putting it in print, which is more likely, or you _did _diagnose it and you're just a really humble guy, which is not only boring, but less believable than that story I read about Big Foot marrying Liza Minelli."

"She said he had great hands. That'd be reason enough to marry someone for me."

"I think that's been proven in the past, and you're avoiding the question," Greg said. Wilson sighed.

"He had bilateral exophthalmos and the biopsy showed no malignant cells. A bone scan showed thickening in his thigh and upper arm. It didn't fit leukemia, but it fit ECD."

"That simple, huh?" Greg was still unconvinced.

"I… had also done some reading on some of your old cases," Wilson admitted. Now Greg's eyebrows _did _shoot up. "Call them inspiration. You had a similar case a few years ago. It led me in the right direction."

"So the reason you didn't credit yourself for the diagnosis was because you felt like you were just being a copy-cat?" Greg asked.

"Honestly? Yeah."

"You are so full of shit," Greg said. Wilson let out a surprised bark of laughter.

By the end of lunch, Greg was no closer to understanding Wilson than he had been before. Surprisingly, now he had even more unanswered questions about him. Over the next few weeks of observation he ate lunch with Wilson almost daily, caught dinner with him on weekends and a couple movie and Chinese nights at his apartment. From this Greg discovered two important facts:

One, that he still had no idea why Wilson had been reading up on him in the first place. And two, that the rest of the staff members at the hospital were labeling them as 'friends'. Huh. Greg diagnosed rare diseases everyday (okay, every week…or two) and he still found that pretty Goddamn bizarre.

* * *

The first time James Wilson thought of Gregory House as his best friend he was getting ready for marriage number two. He and Jennifer were planning everything (well, for the most part, _she_ was planning and he was agreeing) when the subject of matron of honor and best man came up. He was surprised when the person who immediately came to his mind was a scruffy bastard of a diagnostician. 

House and James had had an odd relationship from the start. Half the time he still wasn't sure whether House genuinely enjoyed his company or just put up with him for lack of anything better to do. House was abusive, immature, rude and an altogether pain in the ass, but for some inexplicable reason James was drawn to him almost against his will. He dealt with more shit from House than from people he hated.

But House did have the uncanny ability to make James laugh. And it seemed that a lot of the time James had the same power over House. He'd even seen a table of nurses go white with shock when they'd heard _House_, of all people, laughing loud enough to interrupt half the conversations going on in the cafeteria. On good days the insults and snarking almost seemed to take on an affectionate hue. James was startled to realize that he even felt a measure of affection for House in return.

It seemed that James had started to really open up to someone. His ex-wife had always accused him of being a closed book, and if he was honest, he did have problems trusting people. It was easy to charm them, trick them into thinking they knew him when they didn't really know anything at all. James was good at the smoke and mirrors, never letting anyone see past the reflection he wanted them to see.

But House was different. He saw right through all of the walls James had erected over the years. House probably knew more about James than people who'd known him since college, and they'd only been friends for a year. Hell, House probably knew more intimate details about him than a good portion of the people he'd _slept _with. For some reason, instead of scaring the shit out of him like it should have, James just felt like that was… well, _right._

It was also surprising to see that House didn't seem to be blocking him out, either. He was already making more concessions for James than he did for anyone else at the hospital. He had let James into his life just as much as James had let House into his. He was still a bastard, still abrasive, but it showed in the small things that James was just a little bit higher up on the scale than the rest of the idiots House was forced to interact with.

For one thing, James was the only person working at the hospital who House had introduced to Stacy, the woman House had been living with for almost three years. James had taken an instant liking to her. Like House, she didn't put up with James' charismatic bull shit. She wasn't as observant as House, but she had a tireless amount of guile that made up for it, tricking James into saying things he didn't want to say or making admissions he didn't want to make. The only person who was better at it than she was was her boyfriend.

They'd hit it off shortly after they met when Stacy had joked that half the reason she'd moved in with House was because it was easier for him to have a lawyer in the same apartment since he needed one so often. The sex was just a regrettable side effect. House had scowled, and both of them had shared a laugh at his expense. And while House was the common ground they could relate to each other on, James genuinely liked Stacy for herself. She was intelligent, interesting and fun to talk to. She also seemed to be the only other person who appreciated House the way James did.

Stacy had even been one of the first people James invited to the wedding. House had been, too. Even though he'd predictably spent the conversation with a superior smirk on his face, making snappy comments and refusing outright to wear a suit. Which brought him back to the question at hand.

After thinking it over for a while, he decided he'd ask his younger brother to be his best man. House would either ridicule him or freak out if he asked, neither of which James wanted, even if the look on his friend's face might be worth it.

* * *

The first time Gregory House realized he cared about James Wilson was after a particularly hellish week for both of them. It was the first time in over a year that Greg had lost a patient, and it pissed him off to no end. At least this time he'd figured out what the fuck was wrong with the guy even if it had been too late to do anything about it by then. Last time he hadn't even gotten an autopsy out of the deal. 

The look on his face was enough to keep people at least five feet away from him on all sides as he stormed down the hallways. On a good day people avoided him, on a bad day people were scared shitless by him. And everything about Greg screamed bad day. As in, Absolutely-Do-Not-Fucking-Mess-With-Me-Or-You-Will-Be-Defenestrated. He stomped more than was strictly necessary as he headed back from the ICU where Mr. What's-his-name had just flat-lined.

The glass shook in a way that didn't seem entirely safe as he burst into his office. It was fucking stupid of them to give him a glass office anyway. He suddenly felt the urge to crack every wall of the Goddamn fish tank posing as a room. Instead, he opened the back door to the balcony, gulping in the chilly air in an attempt to calm down. He sagged onto the brick railing, the cold stone biting into his forearms through his jacket.

This failed case was bringing back memories of the one over a year ago that House Did Not Think About. Or tried not to. But the dead guy's face kept swimming out of his mind to be replaced by Esther's wrinkled visage. Along with that came all that anger, disappointment, confusion and resentment he kept locked up. He brooded better than anyone, but that didn't mean he _liked _to. Okay. So what if he did, just a little? This still sucked.

He glanced over towards Wilson's office. It had been a surprise when Dr. Doyle, the oncology department head, had resigned a few months ago, but they'd immediately instated Wilson in his place. Greg didn't like to admit (even to himself) that he'd felt a sense of smug satisfaction and anticipation when he realized that Wilson would be moving into Doyle's old office, right next door to him. It certainly made playing hooky a lot more interesting since it was easier to drag Wilson along with him when all he had to do was hop over a low wall.

There was faint illumination coming from Wilson's desk lamp. Wilson never left lights on when he left the room. Which meant that he was still at work. On closer inspection he could make out Wilson's figure slumped at his desk. What the fuck was he still doing here this late? He had Jennifer to go home to. They'd only been married for a year, and even _Wilson_, all around playboy-slut that he was, couldn't be sick of her already.

But this could be a good thing. If Wilson was still here either something had gone wrong with one of his patients, he'd fallen asleep at his desk because he'd been over-working himself, or he didn't want to go home for reasons as-of-yet unknown. Other people's misery always helped to distract Greg from his own, and in most cases it was pretty damn amusing. Especially when he could poke fun at them while they emoted. The night was looking up.

With a skip-hop, he jumped the wall, walked over to the door and opened it as quietly as he could. He slipped in quickly, not wanting the cold air to alert Wilson to his presence prematurely. He stalked forward to get a better look at his… whatever the fuck Wilson was to him.

Wilson was slumped in his chair, elbows on his desk, head in his hands. Every line of his body spoke of dejection. On closer inspection, Greg saw the pain etched in between the shadows cast over his face. He felt something resembling a chill leak into his gut. What the hell?

The only person he hated to see upset was Stacy. No one else was worth the time or effort it took, let alone the fact that sympathy was pointless anyway. But all the symptoms were the same. Greg's heart rate was elevated, stomach churning, and he had the sudden desire to kick the shit out of whoever had put his normally optimistic… _friend?_… into this depressed state. He stomped down on the feeling.

Greg didn't like not being able to predict his own reaction to something. He hated losing control, and he _especially _hated losing control in regards to his emotions. So he dealt with it the way he always had; denial, cold cynicism and biting sarcasm.

"You want me to get you a hankie?" he asked into the silence. Wilson jumped.

"Jesus. How long have you been standing there?"

"Long enough to witness your pathetic attempt at playing Pagliacci. What's with the prima donna act?"

As soon as the words left his mouth, Wilson glared at him. The normally gentle visage was twisted in anger. Well, anger was better than sadness. Hopefully this would snap him out of his funk.

"You know, some of us aren't able to dismiss the loss of people as so irrelevant that it isn't even worth taking the effort to stop being a bastard for two seconds," Wilson bit out.

Greg knew for a fact that none of Wilson's patients had died recently (and no, it wasn't like he kept obsessive tabs on the guy. He was just interested). If he'd been called in because a patient was dying tonight he'd be out there trying his damnedest to do something about it. If they'd just died Greg still would've heard about it unless it had happened only minutes earlier. Wilson had obviously been sitting at his desk for a while now. Something about the way he used the phrase, 'loss of people', the way his eyes were practically flashing red; this wasn't just another patient lost, or even the build up over time of several patients being lost. This was something personal.

"You wound me," Greg said, clutching a hand dramatically over his heart. "Marital bliss not going the way you expected again? Some nurse caught your eye? Or is Jenny just not putting out anymore?"

No flinch. Wilson's eyes didn't dart away. If anything, the anger in his eyes just got a little more indignant. Huh. Not marriage problems then.

"Drop it," Wilson growled.

"It's not patient related. Too close to home for that. Your Uncle Frank didn't send you a Hanukah card? Mommy or daddy lowered your curfew?"

There was the reaction. Not a big one so not any of the people he'd mentioned. But closer. Family-related.

"Drop it," Wilson repeated, his voice sounding even more dangerous than it had before.

"Why? This is interesting. Besides, you look like you're feeling the need to confide in someone. Admittedly, you'd probably prefer a busty blonde who likes sympathy sex, but I'm all that you've got right now."

Wilson's eyes dropped to his lap, the fight going out of him a little. He let out a weary sigh.

"I'm not willing to spill my guts on the table just to satisfy your curiosity. Besides, I really _don't_ want to talk about it." His tone was final.

There were times when Wilson could be just as stubborn as Greg. It always surprised him, but when those times came along there was nothing to do about it but bide his time and wait for another opening later. Greg was confident he knew Wilson well enough to be able to drag it out of him eventually.

"Fine," he muttered after a moment. He walked over to the closet, grabbed Wilson's coat and threw it at his face. "Come on."

"Sending me home with a note from the teacher?" Wilson asked weakly. Greg felt another damnable twinge at the sound of apathetic defeat in his voice.

"No," he said as he walked out the door into the hallway, Wilson shrugging on his coat and following. "My patient just bit it," he added, seemingly out of the blue.

"Oh," Wilson was shocked. Greg had been too. He _never _lost a patient. "I'm… uh, I'm sorry." House knew he meant for more than the loss of Mr. So-and-so.

And just like that, there he was again. Good old Jimmy the concerned care-taker of all pathetic beings everywhere. More worried about a son-of-a-bitch jaded doctor who never took anything seriously than he was worried about his own (probably sizable) problems. Greg bit back a smile.

"Don't worry about it." They both knew he would anyway. "Let's go get drunk."

"Sounds like a plan," Wilson said, flashing him a weak grin.

As the night wore on and the drinks flowed freely Greg admitted a few things to himself. One, that he really didn't like seeing Wilson that depressed when there was nothing he could do about it besides get him smashed. Two, that maybe it _was_ okay to care about him. And three, that Wilson was his friend, probably (definitely) his best.

Greg tried over the next few weeks… months… to get Wilson to admit what the problem had been that night. It was the one and only time he never succeeded at getting what he wanted. Wilson continued to stay as closed-lipped about it as he had been the first night. Greg eventually dropped it on the grounds that the topic was getting old and boring anyway.

He didn't find out until nine years later, when a Jane Doe by the name of Victoria was admitted to Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital.

* * *

YAAAAY! That's it for the first part. Lemme know what you think, kayz? I'm a feedback-whore. :-D 


	2. Chapter 2

Hoorah! Time for Chapter 2! What? Already? Why, yes.

Warning: This involves some non-descriptive het-sex. Wilson is such a tiger. XD If that offends you, skip the end of the first section. It's not graphic, so I didn't think it needed to be taken out. Sorry if that offends anybody's sensitive pallet.

Otherwise, enjoy.

* * *

The first time James Wilson realized there might be something not-entirely-platonic about his relationship with Gregory House was on his and Jennifer's second anniversary. He'd done everything he could think of to make the evening as romantic as possible. Dinner at the restaurant where he'd proposed, dancing, wine, the works. He'd finished it all off by taking her back home and serving her dessert he'd spent six hours making earlier. It should have been perfect. 

Except for the fact that it felt like both of them were trying too hard. Their conversation was full of boring small-talk, or mushy sentiments that felt more empty than they had in the past. They still loved each other, no doubt about that. It just struck James as _wrong_ that they cared so much about the formality of the whole ordeal. He realized that he hadn't done it all as a purely romantic gesture. It was more that he'd known Jennifer had expected it of him, so he'd gone through the motions.

Adding to the imperfection was the fact that he kept thinking of House at the most inappropriate moments. Cynical words kept popping into his head almost as if his friend was running a commentary behind a curtain. He had nearly laughed out loud at something he _imagined_ House would say when a waitress had accidentally ground pepper into a woman's cleavage. Either James was eccentric or just plain fucked up.

_Still, that doesn't necessarily mean anything,_ he thought. Jenny didn't notice his distraction. She was too busy making exaggerated moaning noises into her dessert. James sat across from her at their dining table lost in his thoughts.

So James had a somewhat-scarily-codependent-obsessive relationship with House. House was his best friend. Like a brother to him. Well, maybe not a _brother _per se… that just didn't seem the right word for it somehow. But "best friend" still seemed too weak of a term. Influential companion…lifelong buddy…platonic soul-mate? Still not it. Why was it that every phrase he came up with sounded so _gay_?

Anyway, House was his friend. So what if having House around always made a shitty day into a good one? It wasn't odd that James was always hyper-aware of House's movements; how he could make simple everyday gestures seem to have an underlying grace no one else could match. It didn't matter that James felt his throat constricting a little during those rare moments when House would do something that showed he actually cared. And so what if James was hypnotized by the way House's dexterous hands seemed to _fly _when he played piano? If he wondered what _else _those hands were capable of, he certainly wasn't telling.

And there he was analyzing his relationship with House when he was supposed to be focusing on Jenny. He snapped his attention back to the present as Jenny finished her dessert and smiled at him in that coy way that told James he was about to get lucky. He stood up and they walked hand in hand to the bedroom.

Later, as he lost himself in that pounding ancient rhythm, Jennifer squeezed her legs tighter around his hips and reared back. He faltered for a moment, and took the opportunity to open his eyes and look at the woman he loved. Her face was flushed, chest heaving, heavy lidded eyes staring into his. He'd always loved the steel-gray of her eyes.

Whether it was the darkness of the room, luminescence from the sliver of light coming from the hallway, or James' own imagination, at that moment Jenny's eyes were a bright shade of blue he'd only ever seen once before in his life. A surge of pure, electric need so strong passed through him that he immediately picked up the rhythm, going faster, pressing harder, _deeper_ until he was practically fucking his wife through the mattress. He was helpless to stop the barrage of images that leapt unbidden into his mind, all having to do with his very egotistical, very exasperating, very _male _best friend.

With a sharp cry James came harder than he ever had in his life, gasping and biting down on his tongue to stop the exclamation of the name _Greg!_ from escaping. He collapsed almost immediately, trying to distribute his weight so he wouldn't crush Jenny. She was shivering from her own orgasm, pulling him close to her and kissing his lips tenderly. He closed his eyes.

_Fuckfuckfuck, _James swore silently, _I want him. I actually _want _him. _

However incredulous he was about it he couldn't deny the facts. James had never been that good at lying to himself or the people he loved. His shattered first marriage was proof of that.

On the night of his second anniversary in the arms of his loving wife, James had a very quiet mental breakdown.

* * *

The first time Gregory House realized there might be something not-entirely-platonic about his relationship with James Wilson was when he started to notice things. 

Things like how when Wilson was getting along with his wife he'd smell stronger because he'd splash on a little bit more cologne than he usually did in the morning. Wilson's hair seemed to inexplicably get less… _flippy_… with every terminal diagnosis he delivered. Wilson would make a show of being annoyed when Greg stole from his lunch tray, but still let a small, amused smile cross his face afterwards when he thought Greg wasn't looking. When Wilson lost several patients in a short period of time he'd joke around with Greg more than he did normally.

Those were all observations Greg could deal with. The kind he could add to his growing list of information about Wilson. None of it was too remarkable or outwardly disturbing. They were the sort of things Greg noticed about everybody all the time. It was his job to analyze and make conclusions from often-missed observations, and he was damn good at it.

The part where it got kind of odd was when he started noticing things he _shouldn't _have noticed.

Things like how certain ties somehow made the brown in Wilson's eyes look a deeper and brighter shade at the same time. The small mole underneath Wilson's lip on the left side of his face added to how young he seemed when he smiled. He had eyebrows so thick that they reminded Greg of caterpillars, but for some reason they just added to Wilson's appeal.

How strongly he reacted to his friend was starting to weird him out. Like how when Wilson really wanted something he could pull a look that would make Greg cave every time. How nobody, not even Stacy, could make Greg laugh like Wilson did. Greg would feel the urge to walk a little closer to Wilson when Deborah or Brenda started looking at the oncologist in a way that wasn't completely professional. His heart seemed to speed up a little (and wasn't _that _a cliché load of crap?) whenever Wilson laughed so hard at one of Greg's comments that his eyes started tearing up.

The part where it started to get scary was that he wanted to know _everything_ about Wilson, wanted to understand where the hell all this was coming from. Greg liked prying into everyone else's business so this wasn't an altogether new thing, but with Wilson it seemed different. The somewhat-functional-obsession had given way to a WAY-too-interested-to-be-healthy-obsession. And the new element to Greg's curiosity about Wilson was that he actually cared on an _emotional_ level. It wasn't just all about the puzzle anymore.

It wasn't that he wanted Wilson. He had everything he wanted, everything he _needed _in Stacy. He _loved _Stacy; he _liked _Wilson. It was more of an appreciation for his friend on an intellectual level than anything else. Who wouldn't appreciate Wilson? He was funny, intelligent, good-looking and one of the few people who didn't bore Greg to tears. It was completely understandable that Greg would be _slightly_ attracted to him.

Emotions, like paperwork, just got in the way of things. Greg prided himself on being obscenely good at ignoring both. So he didn't analyze the way his day wasn't complete until he'd bugged Wilson at least once. He didn't wonder why his shoulder seemed to tingle for a few minutes after Wilson would pat him companionably before heading back to his office. And it didn't require further introspection when he found himself thinking it might be nice to mess up that perfectly coifed hair by running his fingers through it.

He had more important things to worry about, anyway.

* * *

The first time James Wilson knew that Gregory House was the most important person in his life was when he got a phone-call to his hotel room at two a.m. He'd just spent the day sightseeing all over Greece with Jennifer and her overbearing sister. His eyes snapped open at the sharp ring. Jenny groaned and rolled over. James had to reach over her to grab the receiver. 

"Hello?" he asked, his voice rusty with sleep.

"James?" It was Stacy. Why the hell was she calling at this hour? "I'm sorry, I couldn't take the time-difference into account. This couldn't wait. Greg just came out of surgery ten minutes ago."

"What?" His heart sprang into his throat. He was completely awake now. "What happened?"

He listened, his eyes widening in horror as she told him. Leg pain. House being accused of using the clinic to get drugs. Three days of agony and misdiagnosis. Muscle death. Infarction. Medically induced coma. Stacy overriding his wishes to save his life.

"They… they say he's got a pretty good chance. But… but they still don't know if he'll make it." She was crying quietly.

"I'll book the first flight I can get," James assured her, panic clawing up his throat. He was shaking. "Why didn't you call me sooner?"

"I wanted to, James, I'm sorry. But Greg… he made me promise not to. He said he didn't want you to know. I don't know why. I'm sorry. You should've known. You should've been here."

James had always thought it was just a figure of speech, but he felt his blood run cold.

"It's alright. I've got to go. I'll be there as soon as I can."

"Okay. Call me when you get in."

"I will. Just…" Just what? Take care of him? Make sure he doesn't die before I get there? He let the sentence hang unfinished. "I'll be there soon. Bye."

He hung up and leapt out of bed, turning on the light and dressing. He began to pack their things on auto-pilot. He pushed the panic aside to worry about later. At least now he had something to do.

"James?" Jennifer's muffled voice came from the bed. "Baby, what's going on?"

"House is in the hospital," he said hurriedly. "He's just gotten out of surgery. We've got to go back. I'll book the first flight out tomorrow morning."

"What? What's wrong with him?"

James explained while still packing. It felt odd to hear what Stacy had just told him coming out of his mouth. He still wasn't sure he completely believed it. House had always seemed indestructible.

By the time he'd finished explaining he was nearly done packing. He grabbed the phone to schedule the flight. He wondered if he would even be able to book one at this hour. Before he could dial Jenny took the receiver away from him and hung it up.

"Jenny, what-?"

"Wait a second, James," Jenny said. "You're panicking. There's nothing you can do."

"Nothing I can do _here_, no," James agreed, irritated.

"Even when you get there, what could you do but wait around?"

"Nothing much, but I could _be_ there. They might need me."

"Listen to yourself, James. You said that Stacy hadn't called earlier because he didn't want you to know. Why would he want you there?"

The words stung, coming from her. Even if he'd wondered it himself.

"You're being unreasonable," she continued. "We're leaving the day after tomorrow anyway."

James couldn't believe what he was hearing.

"This is my best friend we're talking about, Jenny," he snapped. "My _dying _best friend. I'm going whether you come with me or not. If you want to stay here with Meredith for another day, fine. Have fun. But I _am _going."

Jennifer had never liked House. Still, he was James' best friend. That should count for something. As he looked into her shocked face he saw this for the power play it was. He wondered if she could possibly be the same woman he'd married. Maybe he was the one who'd changed. But the fact remained that House's life mattered a hell of a lot more to him than his wife's happiness. She'd just have to deal with it.

When he walked out of the hotel leaving Jenny glaring at him from the bed he got that nauseous feeling in his gut he'd gotten the last time around when he'd wondered if his marriage was going to last. Maybe it was the panic or the stress talking, but for a split second he was almost positive that it was only a matter of time before this one ended as well. He could only hope that it would be on amiable terms.

For the 14 hour long flight he couldn't sleep. He sat there trying to imagine life without House. Every time he did he wanted to tear down the aisle and scream at the pilot to fly the damn plane faster. House would be fine. The bastard had a stubborn streak broad enough to get him through anything. James had to keep telling himself that, or he would have a panic attack in the middle of a crowded cabin.

How did people deal with shit like this? He'd dished out the bad news often enough, but he'd never really had to deal with it himself. Everything seemed to be going fast-forward and in slow motion at the same time. He was having trouble breathing. He couldn't think straight. His eyes were burning. He felt like he couldn't keep still.

The physician's part of his mind knew that all of this was a physiological response to shock, stress and panic. His emotions were causing his adrenaline to pump, his body to go into fight-or-flight mode. This resulted in rapid heart-beat, shallow breathing, cold sweat. That part of his mind couldn't stop the fear from closing up his throat, though, couldn't stop the helplessness from eating away at his stomach.

He refused to let himself wonder why House hadn't wanted him to know. He was already upset enough as it was. But his mind kept racing, and he couldn't help thinking about it in short bursts before he cut himself off. He thought he might go into hysterics.

After an eternity the plane landed, and James practically sprinted out of the terminal after grabbing his luggage. He pulled his cell-phone out as he got into the cab.

"Stacy? It's James. I'm here."

* * *

The first time Gregory House realized that he trusted James Wilson more than anyone else alive was when he was going through the most excruciating pain he'd ever experienced in his life. Six days ago it'd just been muscle pain, bed rest, antibiotics. Nothing life threatening. Now it seemed even reality was crumbling before his eyes. The worries, disappointments, hopes and plans of the past month seemed like a pipe-dream, and he wondered if any of it had even really mattered. On top of it all the bitter taste of betrayal lay heavily on his tongue. 

If Greg thought about it objectively he couldn't blame Stacy for what she'd done. That didn't mean there wasn't resentment ripping at his chest, anger burning through his veins almost as strongly as the pain. He'd woken up from the coma to find what felt like half his thigh just… _gone. _They'd threatened to restrain him when he'd ripped away the surgeon's dressings to see the extent of the damage.

Then Stacy had confessed to what she'd done, and he'd lost it. He didn't shout at people he _hated_ as badly as he'd screamed at her for the next ten minutes before she'd choked back a sob and left the room. Stacy hadn't come in again since then. The pain still coursing through him told him it must have been days, but the clock told him it'd been a mere matter of a few hours. Greg could see her sitting outside his room, though, looking pensive, afraid and smaller than she'd ever seemed. Normally he'd feel protective of her if she looked like that. Now he felt a measure of smug satisfaction that he knew he shouldn't. With a tired sigh he leaned back against the pillow and closed his eyes.

He was jolted awake when he heard shoes pounding a staccato rhythm down the hallway towards his room. He looked out the window to see Stacy standing up, rushing to whoever it was and falling against them. Sobs wracked her frame as she buried her face into an expensive tie. _Shit_. She must've called Wilson while he was in surgery.

They talked in hushed tones for a few minutes, but Greg couldn't make out what they were saying. Finally Wilson took her elbow and led her away. It was another half hour before he came back.

His friend strode into the room looking more worried than Greg had ever remembered seeing him, and that was saying something. Sometimes he thought Wilson lived in a constant state of worry. There were deep rings under his friend's eyes, his hair was a mess and his clothes were rumpled. He must've just gotten off the plane. He sat down next to Greg's bed. He opened his mouth and closed it twice before he finally spoke.

"This is probably the stupidest question I've ever asked you, but how are you doing?"

"Fantastic," Greg bit out sarcastically. "Figured I'd go for a run just as soon as they took out the damn catheters. What's your opinion on spandex shorts?"

Wilson smiled sadly.

"Well, at least your mouth still works the way it used to. I'd say that's cause for hope."

"You always say there's cause for hope right up until the point you're telling the parents their kid is terminal."

Greg did not allow himself to feel a flash of guilt when Wilson's eyes darted down to his lap, wincing as if he'd struck him.

They sat in silence for a moment until Wilson took a deep breath and asked tentatively, "Why didn't you have them call me earlier? You know I would have come the second I heard."

"What, you'd rather hang out in a hospital than tour the Parthenon? I thought you had more taste."

"The Parthenon was a let-down. Not nearly as impressive as all the brochures say it is. If I recall correctly, _you_ were the one who told me it was over-rated, and you're always right, remember?"

Greg couldn't help the weak smile that fought it's way onto his face.

"Of course," he said. "That's one more thing the world can add to the list of certainties. Death, taxes, and Gregory House is never wrong." The last part came out a little strained. His eyes snapped shut tightly and he winced as the pain intensified for a few moments.

When he looked up again Wilson's impressive eyebrows were knitted into a deep frown.

"How bad is the pain?" he asked. Greg winced again.

"Not that bad."

"Liar. Why not just tell me?"

"Because there's nothing you could do about it, and the _last _time I answered that question truthfully they took half my fucking thigh muscles," he bit out passed clenched teeth. Wilson was stunned into silence for a few moments.

"You know that Stacy had no choice," he ventured. "You know it was killing her to watch you like this without being able to do anything about it. Can you really blame her?"

"Yes. I'm capable of any number of despicable things. I thought we'd established that. Besides, you got her to go away fairly quickly. Maybe she's finally accepted the fact that I'm pissed."

"She was exhausted! She's been here for two days straight. I told her to go home and get some rest."

"Good. I hope she enjoys the disturbed sleep of the guilt-ridden." He knew he was acting like a two-year-old, but he couldn't help himself.

"She loves you, you idiot! She did what she thought she had to do."

"_Did_ she have to? Would you have done the same thing?" He glared accusingly at his best friend through the haze of pain.

"It doesn't matter what I would have done!" Wilson hissed. "I wasn't here. I didn't _know. _God damn it, House, I didn't know that my _best friend_ was _dying _while I was on a completely irrelevant vacation with my wife and my annoying sister-in-law. What the fuck _could _I have done but come back to find you like this, or worse, come back to find you dead?"

Wilson never got this upset. He was always cool, calm, collected in the face of everything. House had only been able to rile him occasionally and even then it never even approached what he was witnessing now. Wilson's hands were gripping his knees so hard that the knuckles had turned white, his jaw was clenched, and his eyes were suspiciously bright, almost as if he was holding back tears. He looked angry, helpless, frustrated… _hurt. _And Greg had to look away. Wilson took in a calming breath.

"So why didn't you let Stacy call me?" he whispered. "Was I so irrelevant that you didn't even want to give me the closure of being able to say goodbye if it came to that? Do you have any idea what I'd do for you?"

Greg did have a good idea of the lengths Wilson would go for him. It was one of the things he consistently didn't think about. Just like he'd been trying not to think about his reasons for practically ordering Stacy to keep Wilson in the dark.

He wanted to lie. He wanted to say one of the many plausible things that Wilson would accept. "I didn't want to worry you," or, "I didn't want you to see me like this." Those statements would take some of the hurt out of Wilson's eyes, they would let Greg continue to deny what he was feeling about the whole situation. But he couldn't do it.

The fact of the matter was that he'd been terrified. Scared out of his mind just like he was now because of how _badly _he'd wanted Wilson there. Stacy had been with him, and that should have been all he needed. But it still hadn't been enough. The panic had been eating away at him more than it should have, and the only thing he'd really wanted was for Wilson to come back. He'd _needed _Wilson, and he didn't know how he felt about that.

It'd almost been harder with Stacy there. That protective streak in him had been crying out to deny the pain, to hide how bad it was so that Stacy didn't have to see. And not being able to hide it, her seeing him like that… it had been more humiliating than he would have thought. There wasn't such a strong sense of pride in his relationship with Wilson. There also wasn't that sense of the need to protect. Wilson had proven himself to be able to handle anything God or Greg could throw at him and then some. Knowing that Wilson was his equal in every way that mattered… that was liberating in a way it wasn't with Stacy.

And it was scaring the shit out of Greg that right now that concerned gaze Wilson was leveling on him was more comforting, more of an anchor than Stacy's tears, than her hand stroking through his hair. What the fuck was wrong with him?

"You're blaming yourself for this," Greg observed after a long moment. "Not that it's much of a surprise. You _always_ blame yourself."

There was an almost imperceptible flicker of emotion that blazed through Wilson's eyes for a split second.

"Maybe I could have done something," his voice came quickly. "I would have known that it wasn't about the drugs. I would have made them listen, we might have figured it out sooner…" He trailed off, dropping his head into his hands with a weary sigh.

"I'm sorry," he whispered from his slumped position. "You don't need this right now. I'm being an ass."

"Finally, something we can agree on," Greg mumbled. Wilson let out a slightly-hysterical laugh.

They lapsed into silence, and Wilson finally lifted his head. Their eyes locked, and for a moment it seemed that they were trying to communicate without saying anything. Greg finally broke the silence.

"If things keep going the way they are, they want to start my physical therapy in a month."

"Good. That's… good," Wilson fumbled.

"Yeah." _And it's gonna hurt like hell._ "I've… asked them to schedule it in the early afternoon." Wilson looked confused.

"Stacy will be back at work by then."

"I know." _I don't want her to have to deal with it. To see me __go through that. _

"Ah."

"If you… I mean, if you weren't…" Greg trailed off. He was really fucking bad at stuff like this. _I don't want Stacy there, but I can't do this alone. I want you there. I need your help._ Wilson's eyes softened.

"I'm sure I can fit it into my schedule."

"Oh. Okay. Uh… thanks." _For being there. For… caring. _

"Don't mention it."

They were silent for a few moments again. Greg's eyes were starting to get heavy. He fought it for a minute, but he was exhausted. Slowly, he let himself succumb to sleep.

Just before he went under he felt a strong hand rest on top of his. Greg turned his over and gave a weak squeeze.

And maybe he imagined it, but he thought he heard Wilson's choked voice whisper,

"Thank God you're still here."

* * *

The first time Gregory House knew that James Wilson was always going to be around was three months after Stacy finally left for good. They'd only lasted eight months after the infarction, and they'd fought more in those eight months than they had for the entire rest of the time they'd known each other. Then why the fuck did he miss her so much? 

Greg wasn't used to missing people. People were annoying when they were in his life, good riddance when they were gone. And he'd had enough resentment and anger stored up against Stacy that he'd thought when she left it wouldn't hurt.

He'd forgotten the blazingly obvious fact that underneath it all he still loved her. She'd been one of the best things that had ever happened to him. And now he found himself spending most nights holed up in his room contemplating death like a whiny teenager. Heartbreak was a bitch.

The only thing that had remained a constant, that had gotten him through the worst times (even though he'd never admit to that) was James Wilson. Whereas Stacy and Greg knew all the weak spots in each other's armor and the built up resentment had allowed them to score direct hits, Greg never seemed to be able to get to Wilson. He'd dealt out some low-blows, too, but the bastard just seemed to shrug them off by giving him an eye-roll and a look that screamed, _I understand that you're being a total ass right now, but I'm not going to comment on it. _

It was messing with Greg in ways he didn't like to think about. Mainly that his _slight _attraction to Wilson had been getting stronger by the day. And while he probably could use a rebound fuck he wasn't about to entertain the notion that he could get one from his married best friend.

He felt like he was a baby duck imprinting on the first human he saw. Post-Stacy, the first person who showed any caring or affection towards him was Wilson so it only made sense. Not that Greg _needed _affection. He was an island, man.

He sighed and sat down heavily on his couch, wincing when his thigh gave a painful twinge. The chronic leg pain wasn't helping his depressed state any. Where he used to run a couple miles every morning, now it was killing him to walk a block. It had taken the better part of a year of physical therapy to even get to this point. The fact that he'd have to use a cane for the rest of his life was like having a third limb as a constant reminder of his physical short-comings.

He couldn't deny that he had gotten better since the beginning, though. Those first few sessions had been agony, and the only thing that hadn't let him give up then and there was Wilson's hand resting steadily on his shoulder. He'd never agreed to let Stacy sit in on the sessions. She would've been too emotional about it. Wilson was always silent, never commenting, just leaving his hand on Greg's shoulder to let him know there was someone there who cared.

It was uncanny how easily Wilson was able to read him. Sometimes it seemed like he knew exactly what Greg needed without having to ask. And he could call Greg on his bull shit better than anyone else could.

Since Greg had been doing better Wilson had taken to reading medical journals during the therapy sessions. He would only stop reading if he thought that Greg was having a bad pain day. Last week Greg had been bored with the session and miffed at Wilson's disinterest so he'd acted like he was having a lot more trouble than he actually was. At a particularly loud grunt of "pain", Wilson had smirked without raising his eyes from his journal and said,

"Your theatrics are commendable, but would you mind keeping it down? I've just gotten to the best part."

Thank God he only had another two weeks of therapy left before they handed him the bottle of vicodin and shooed him out the door. He knew his therapist would only be too eager to have him gone. He'd made her life a living hell. It was one of the few things from the whole ordeal that he was actually proud of.

He was jolted out of his thoughts by a knock on the door. It must be Wilson. He really needed to get an extra key made up. Wilson practically lived here, anyway. He limped over to the door and opened it.

"Hey," Wilson said.

"You did not bring food. I see no Chinese. This is a problem," Greg informed him. Wilson rolled his eyes.

"Because as scintillating as my company is, it doesn't fill your stomach," he deadpanned. "I figured I'd make dinner." He brushed passed Greg and into the kitchen. For a split second, Greg envied his easy stride. He stamped the feeling out, though, and followed his friend. His gait was limping, but his legs were longer so he caught up to him easily.

"What's wrong?" Greg asked as Wilson searched the cupboards for something edible.

"What? Why would something be wrong?" Wilson didn't meet his eyes.

"Because the only time you voluntarily cook for other people is when you're trying to seduce someone, impress a dinner party, or are upset enough that you want something to distract you. Since I have no breasts and there's only one of me, I'm assuming it's the last one."

"I just feel like cooking. Nothing's wrong." He was banging the pots around more than was strictly necessary.

"Right. And you just poured spaghetti sauce onto uncooked noodles because nothing is wrong."

Wilson's back tensed up then sagged as he let out a tired sigh.

"Jennifer left me."

"Really? When?" _Interesting._

"She moved into her sister's house this afternoon."

"Huh. Any particular reason why? The sex not good anymore? You didn't match the new furniture?" Wilson glared at him.

"She accused me of cheating on her."

"Really? Were you?" This was puzzling. Greg hadn't noticed Wilson schmoozing with any of the nurses lately.

"I admitted to it," Wilson sighed. Greg frowned.

"But were you?"

"Not… not in so many words, no."

"Ah. So you didn't actually follow through with the prohibited fornication, but you wanted to."

"Yeah."

"Often." Greg smirked. Wilson was starting to blush.

"Yeah."

"Dirty fantasies playing through your head at all hours of the day."

"House!"

"So why didn't you?" Wilson wasn't looking at him again. Greg hated when he did that.

"It's… complicated. But it doesn't matter. Even without the mental cheating, our marriage was doomed anyway."

"So who is she?" Greg asked. Wilson snorted.

"I hardly think that's any of your business." Wilson turned around and drained the sauce from the uncooked noodles, rinsing them off and throwing them in a pot of water he set to boil. He was being stubborn. Dammit. Greg wasn't going to get anything more out of him.

He limped into the living room and sat down on the couch. He clicked the TV on and started channel surfing. After a few minutes he settled on some sort of infomercial. He wasn't paying attention to it, anyway.

Now that he thought about it, Wilson had been devoting most of his energy to aiding Greg in his recovery. Wilson was a constant in his world where everyone else had abandoned him. Since Stacy had left, Wilson came over at least five nights a week with dinner, ate lunch with Greg every day since he'd gone back to work six months ago and never missed a therapy session. Even before Stacy had left he'd made a point to look in on Greg once or twice a day and usually ended up spending a few hours with him. He'd tried to get Greg out of the apartment on weekends. Actually, Wilson spent more time at Greg's apartment than he did at home.

That much time spent with someone else couldn't be good for any marriage. Greg knew that his relationship with Stacy had suffered because of it. She'd seen Greg trusting Wilson more than her, preferring to have Wilson come to the therapy sessions instead of her, laughing with Wilson when she was lucky to get him to smile. He was a jerk to Wilson like he'd always been, but there wasn't the underlying resentment, the sense of betrayal and hatred he felt when he looked at Stacy. She'd picked up on that. They'd fought about it several times before she left.

What if Greg was one of the reasons Jennifer had left? And why did he feel so…_satisfied_ at that thought?

Wilson came out then, handing Greg a plate of spaghetti. He sat down next to him on the couch and started eating from his own plate.

"You're planning on buying three industrial sized tubs of Oxy-Clean?" Wilson asked.

"Who wouldn't? Just look at how it takes the blood out of that carpet. I wouldn't have to worry about hiding bodies in the closet anymore."

"Well, that guy seems pretty enthusiastic about it. Maybe you can get high off it. You think he's been snorting it back stage? It might explain the volume of his voice if he's lost some of his lower brain function."

Greg laughed, then took a bite of his food.

"You know what?" Greg asked after a few moments of silence. "I thought you'd have better things to do than look after a jaded cripple. What do I have to do to get rid of you? You're still here." His voice was light and sarcastic, but he knew Wilson could sense the underlying seriousness.

"I must admit, the abusive conversation leaves a lot to be desired, but the food is good, and the couch is comfortable," Wilson said with a smile. "I don't plan on going anywhere."

And for the first time in a long time Greg felt almost happy.

"I know."

* * *

WAAAAH! Poor Wilson is pining away after House, House is pining away after Stacy, and they're both being oblivious. :tear: Review for me, and I shall try to get the next chapter out ASAP. Pwease? XD 


	3. Chapter 3

Hoorah! Finally: I give you chapter three! Sorry it took so long. But I promise it's worth the wait. Hopefully.

**Disclaimer:** I am aware of the fact that I stole actual dialogue from the show. I apologize if it bugs anyone, and I lay no claim to it. I do not write for the show. If I did, Hugh and Robert would be all up-ons. However, I wanted to analyze the dialogue in my creepy-fan-girl way, and I felt that for this fic, it worked. So nyah. :-P

Spoilers through _Babies and Bathwater_.

* * *

The first time Gregory House admitted to himself that he wanted James Wilson was on the tenth Christmas he'd spent in the oncologist's company. Their tenth Christmas together… _that _thought was so sentimental that it nearly made Greg gag. While they had never really celebrated the day, Greg was struck by the fact that they'd always managed to spend at least part of it together. Ten years and the bastard had never gotten him a gift. He should totally cash in on it, except that Wilson would then try to cash in on all the Christmas presents Greg had never given _him_, and what was the point of getting a gift if you had to give one to get it? Plus, Wilson could always play the Jew card. 

While he thought, he leaned back and started tossing candies in the air. That was the only good thing about Christmas. Free candy. Not that he ever ate a lot, but it was fun to have tiny projectiles stocked on every desk and table in the entire hospital. Easy access annoyance. He really needed to work on his aim, though. Cuddy's shirts were cut so low he was appalled he'd still missed.

He continued tossing as his thoughts took a darker turn. It was his fifth Christmas without Stacy. He really should be used to the fact that she was gone by now. For the most part, he felt like he was over her At least as over her as an obsessive, slightly eccentric genius could be over anything. Still, there were short moments when he missed her, a small gnawing in the back of his mind that drove him crazy. He wasn't sure whether he really missed her or the _idea _of her. Five years without her might have made his admittedly fantastic memory glazed over, the ugliness of their relationship replaced by nostalgia. Maybe he missed her because he felt like things had been left…_unfinished_ between them.

Greg and Stacy had had a few good Christmases together. That's probably why he was feeling so melancholy. She'd always managed to charm his secular and cynical heart into the spirit of things. Hell, she'd even gotten him to watch that Charlie Brown Christmas special with her one year. Even if he had scoffed and bitched through the entire thing, that was damn near close to a miracle. Without her, Christmas just wasn't the same. And if he ever voiced _that _thought aloud he'd slit his wrists with a butter knife.

He kept tossing the candy rhythmically even when he noticed Wilson walking up with the coffee he'd gone to get several minutes ago. He must've stopped by his office on the way back to grab his coat. Greg almost made some snippy comment about Wilson taking too long, but Wilson spoke before he could.

"The sixth circle of hell," he stated, apropos nothing. Greg took his coffee.

"Confined in a sweat box with a bloody nose and all the tissues are soggy," he answered.

"I think that's the seventh."

"Nope. The seventh is when–"

"God, you must be fun at parties," Wilson cut him off, propping his feet up on the desk.

"I think we both know the flaw in that theory."

Wilson let out a sigh, completely ignoring Greg's self-depreciating comment.

"How's the Sister?" he asked.

"Kidneys functioning, heart rate is normal. You know how it is with nuns: you take out their IUDs and they bounce right back." And wasn't it fantastic that he was being so irreverent on Christmas? Wilson wasn't surprised by his comment at all.

"Great."

"Told you I didn't screw up," Greg pointed out smugly. Wilson gave a slight head shake of disagreement.

"You screwed up," he corrected.

"I gave her point one CC of epinephrine," Greg protested.

"Yeah, and if Cuddy hadn't taken you off the case, you would have killed her."

Greg shot him a glance that he tried to make look more annoyed than it was doleful. After a few seconds he looked away. They both knew that Wilson was right, but Greg wasn't the type to admit it, and Wilson wasn't the type to push the issue. It was one of the things that made their friendship work out so well.

"You want to come over for Christmas dinner?" Wilson asked after a moment of silence. Greg looked up in surprise.

"You're Jewish," he stated incredulously.

"Yeah…Hanukkah dinner," Wilson looked like he was holding back an eye-roll. "What do you care? It's food; it's people."

"No thanks."

He ignored the disappointment that flashed over Wilson's face. Greg's reply had been automatic. He didn't want a pity dinner, and he didn't want to see Julie. He'd never liked her, and she'd never liked him. That seemed to be the pattern with Wilson's wives. They had a good thing going, actually. Mutual hatred was oh-so-satisfying. If Greg's reasons for hating her stemmed from an illogical sense of betrayal then that was his own business. He knew that Wilson had every right to get re-married as many times as he damn-well pleased. Greg would never tell Wilson that his marriage to Julie had left him feeling inexplicably more alone than when Stacy had gone, left him with confused anger articulated in the back of his head by a tiny voice that labeled Wilson as _mine! _

Besides, he was good at stewing in his own misery. What better night for that than Christmas? He'd certainly take pouting over having to watch Julie plant empty kisses on Wilson's cheek, her thinly veiled blue eyes glaring at Greg in disapproval. He hated sitting there without being able to announce to the room at large what a bitch she was. At least not as often as he wanted to. Even his deference to Wilson couldn't hold him back completely.

"Maybe I'll come to your place." Wilson's quiet and slightly hesitant comment caught him off guard. Surprise was the only reason his heart had jumped for a second.

"Your wife doesn't mind being alone at Christmas?" he asked. He was proud to note that only a hint of bitterness had crept into his voice.

"I'm a doctor, she's used to being alone."

That was interesting. Good news, even, though he doubted Wilson would see it that way. He raised his eyebrows.

"I don't want to talk about it," Wilson stated firmly.

"Neither do I." Damn. That had come out a little too rushed and nervous for his taste. Luckily Cuddy walked up, effectively changing the focus.

"You did good with the nun. Congratulations."

Aw, hell. She was in one of those 'make-nice-with-the-asshole' moods. Greg took the path that would get her out of his hair the fastest.

"Thank you."

"Merry Christmas Dr. House, Dr. Wilson," she said. Then she was gone, Wilson wishing her a goodnight before she got out of ear-shot.

"That was sweet," he observed after a moment. Greg bit back a snort.

"Come on, let's get the hell out of here. Nice-Cuddy is creepy. Besides, Hunan House closes in an hour." Greg stood up and led the way, Wilson following behind him.

"Chinese for Christmas dinner?" Wilson asked with a smirk. "Surprisingly, I've always kind of wanted to do that."

"Freak."

"You're the one who suggested it."

"You're the one who tries to act normal. At least I embrace my freakishness."

"Some would argue that trying to act within the acceptable parameters of society is just a healthy response to coping with life."

"Or that it's an unhealthy denial of your true nature. Which leads me back to the fact that you are, irrefutably, a freak."

"So if I deny it or not, I'm still a freak? That doesn't seem fair."

"And I'm sure your parents told you that life seldom is."

They took Greg's car and within the hour they'd stocked up on enough Chinese food to rupture the stomach of a small elephant. After a few more hours of laughing, lo mein and scotch, Wilson fell into a deep alcohol-induced sleep on Greg's couch. He'd managed it even with Greg plunking out Christmas carols on the piano. Greg felt a little put-out since Wilson had bullied him into playing them in the first place. He stopped and turned around on the bench.

The low lighting was just enough to highlight the slight flush that had risen on Wilson's cheeks. Greg hadn't drank as much as Wilson had, but it had been enough to pull down his defenses a little and leave him with a warm feeling in the pit of his stomach that he wasn't sure was entirely because of the alcohol. It had felt good sharing Christmas and Chinese with Wilson. He'd laughed harder and longer than he had in weeks. Was it wrong that it seemed Wilson was the only one able to wring those laughs out of him anymore?

Watching Wilson sprawled on the couch, his hair falling into his face, clothes rumpled, Greg was nearly knocked over by a wave of lust so strong he felt like he was going to pass out. Jesus! What was up with his friend inducing all the fucking cliché reactions? Wilson was not some Goddamn heroine in a romance novel, features soft and gentle in sleep causing the hero to fall head-over-heels. Greg could hardly believe himself. He must be much, much, _much _drunker than he thought he was.

But he couldn't deny how _right _it felt; to have Wilson lying on his couch like that, to have Wilson _here _instead of home with his wife. He could barely ignore that little voice in the back of his head that was screaming at him to go over to the couch and wake Wilson up in ways that would be highly unacceptable considering his friend was not only straight, but married. Shit.

Maybe it was the depression he'd been feeling earlier causing him to grab onto the first source of comfort he saw. Maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe it was a combination of both, or something else. But in that moment, Greg finally admitted to himself that he wanted James Wilson as more than a friend. It was also in that moment that Greg decided that he wouldn't let things go that far. Acknowledging the attraction didn't mean he had to act on it.

Besides, this was precisely the reason why God made hookers.

* * *

The first time James Wilson realized there was something dark about his relationship with Gregory House was also the first time he deliberately manipulated him. If he thought about it he couldn't quite pinpoint the moment that he'd decided Something Needed To Be Done. House had been depressed for years, so the fact that House was suffering couldn't be it. House made misery into an art form. Actually, James couldn't think of a time he'd seen House one hundred percent happy. Even while in love House had managed to find something wrong with the world. Hell, when they were _getting along_ House and Stacy had fought. 'Bastard' was just House's default setting. 

He was sure that House had been happy before, if not ecstatic. Maybe… content was the better term? Content brought undertones of peace though, and peaceful was something House had never been. Happy, then. Before the infarction House had been happy. At least as happy as House could manage.

So the moment James decided to act hadn't been because of any huge epiphany, any overt sign that something was tipping the scale from bad to worse. It had been a slow build-up. Longer pauses between the times House would smile. Minutes between doses of vicodin. Days between laughs. James had started to get uneasy. Even after the infarction he'd always been able to make House laugh. It had chipped away at James' composure piece by piece until he'd felt compelled to do something. Where that urge had come from… he just wasn't sure of yet.

James was good at manipulating people. It might not always look that way, but somewhere deep inside of himself James admitted that's what it was. House said he had a silver tongue, an innate ability to force people to see his side of the argument, make them listen to him. It wasn't that he didn't care about his patients. God knew he did too much of that, but there was a darker side to it. Something that got off on getting his way. _Control._ Sometimes it scared him, but for the most part he could manage it.

He'd never tried it with House before. There'd never really been a reason to. House could normally call him on his bull shit before anyone else had even noticed. House could fight back; he wasn't a predictable factor. But this time James hadn't been able to help but interfere, couldn't watch his friend walk down that path of self-destruction without trying to trip him up. In order to stop House from reading him and recognizing the ploy for what it was, he'd gotten Cuddy involved. Manipulating two people for the price of one.

Over the next week, James wondered whether he'd done the right thing. He didn't like seeing people he cared about in pain. Which was ironic really, considering the profession he'd chosen. There were so many moments when he wanted to confess what he'd done, call the whole thing off. But then he'd remember the deadness of House's eyes when he sat in his office twirling his cane, thinking no one was looking. He'd remember the more and more frequent winces of pain. The comments that were meant to wound instead of tease.

So he watched as House detoxed, watched as the shadows under his eyes got deeper, watched as the pain dug into every line on his face. He did what he could to help, kept conversation light, hired a masseuse, wrapped House's hand when he broke it himself. But James never tried to end it, no matter how serious it got. He wondered what that said about him. He could only thank God House had made it through.

"You made it a week," he commented to a freshly drugged-up and much more lively-looking House.

"And won my prize," House pointed out.

"Congratulations."

"Cuddy's a sucker. I would have done it for two weeks off."

"Yeah, it was a piece of cake," he said sarcastically. They paused at the entrance to House's office. "You learn anything?"

"Yeah. I'm an addict." House dropped the bomb, then turned and walked into his office. Acting completely unconcerned. Son of a bitch.

James was thrown. Even though he'd known he was right about the drugs he hadn't really expected House to admit to anything. It took him a moment or two to snap out of it and follow House in.

"Uh… okay," he offered lamely. Still not completely composed. He put his hands on his hips, almost to try and steady himself.

"I'm not stopping."

"There are programs," he suggested tentatively. "Cuddy would give you the time. You could get on a different pain regimen—"

"I don't need to stop," House cut him off.

James nearly shivered as something inside him _growled _at that denial, made him want to reach out and shake House until he saw reason.

"You just said—"

"I said I was an addict. I didn't say I had a problem." _But you do. We both know you do. _"I pay my bills, I make my meals. I function."

Something about that stung. The anger inside James kept building.

"Is that all you want? You have no relationships."

"I don't want any relationships."

There was that feeling again. That feeling that had prompted James to start this whole thing.

"You alienate people."

"I've been alienating people since I was three."

_And you haven't matured much since then, either, _James thought. His face snapped up, and so did the tension.

"Oh, come on! Drop it! You don't think you've changed in the last few years?"

"Well, of course I have. I've- I've gotten older. My hair's gotten thinner. Sometimes I'm bored, sometimes I'm lonely, sometimes I wonder what it all means."

And he was still hiding behind the sarcasm. James couldn't stand it, and even though all the signs were warning him off he plowed on. He wanted _some _sort of reaction, instead of the stand-offish snark that was so typical of House.

"No, I was there! You are not just a regular guy who's getting older, you've changed! You're miserable, and you're afraid to face yourself—"

James jumped when House slammed his cane down on the table. Well, he'd wanted a reaction.

"Of course I've changed!" House shouted. There was a pause. An awkward silence. He'd thought their friendship was past those.

"And everything's the leg?" he finally ventured. "Nothing's the pills? They haven't done a thing to you?" James still couldn't put a name on it, but that damn… _something_ was closing up his throat, making his voice slightly shaky.

"They let me do my job. And they take away my pain," House stated resolutely. They stared blankly at each other for a moment. Something about the way House was looking at him…

_He wants me to leave. He's pushing me away. _

The thought came unbidden, but as soon as it did, James knew that that was it. That feeling that had been bothering him… it was the feeling that House was trying to distance himself. To get away from him. When everything in James wanted to control it, to fix it, to help…

_Stop. You don't have to do this alone. Let me… Let me…_

And that was the crux of the matter, wasn't it? This really wasn't about House at all. It was about James. He didn't want to lose House, couldn't bear the thought of never seeing a genuine smile from him again, never hearing him laugh, never falling asleep in the middle of a movie-marathon with their thighs touching, their breathing synchronized. He knew he could never really have House the way he wanted, that he was only taunting himself with the unattainable… but for some reason that was enough for him. Enough for him to keep everything together. To pretend it was all okay.

He sighed, rubbing his hand over his neck, defeated. After one last look he turned around and left. Maybe he should listen to House on this one. James had no right to pass judgment. That clinging, grasping possessiveness inside of James was screaming at him to do something, but he feared he'd already done too much. It was an ugliness about him he'd never really paid attention to before. He'd crossed the line with both eyes open, completely aware of what he was doing. Now that he had it felt like the dam had burst. The scariest part was knowing it would probably get the better of him again someday, that he'd lost some of the control he'd had over that part of himself.

At least a few things had been made clear.

For all that he liked to think he knew House, he didn't really understand him. And for all that he liked to feel in control, feel wanted, _needed, _that was something he wasn't ever going to get here. House had never needed him at all.

With time, he hoped he would be okay with that.

* * *

The first time Gregory House regretted the fact that he was an asshole was when James Wilson lost everything for him. The most annoying part was that he really hadn't seen it coming. He'd known there would be some sort of reparation from Vogler, but there was no way in a million years he'd thought the rich jerk could be just as diabolical as Greg could be. Vogler had almost trumped that time Greg had nearly convinced Cameron that those kitten-in-a-jar things were real. 

There were a few things in the world that Greg was certain of, and one of them was that they'd never be smart enough to figure out a way to get his crippled ass out of Princeton Plainsboro. It wasn't the best place to be, but it was _his _place. And they let him get away with more here than he would anywhere else… at least at first. Greg didn't feel like breaking in a new hospital.

He'd been so sure of himself, striding into Wilson's office. Getting a favor from Wilson was as easy as getting a tail-wag from a needy puppy. He was expecting a short conversation, maybe a couple sniping remarks, and then he'd be gone, popping a vicodin and waiting while all the hard work was done for him.

"Listen, Vogler's all about clinical trials. The hospital's chock full of them. There's got to be something for small-cell lung cancer…"

What he didn't expect was to find Wilson packing his admittedly work-centered and pathetic life into boxes. He paused for a moment.

"What are you doing?" Greg asked in a slightly rushed tone. It was a stupid question, but for once he couldn't come up with anything better. Wilson put his hands on his hips.

"I got sacked."

A cold feeling started to churn in Greg's gut. He almost shivered, but he ignored it and fell back onto his favored form of defense.

"Did you make a pass at Cuddy? Told you, she only has thighs for me."

Something like disgust flashed in Wilson's eyes as he turned back from grabbing another book off the shelf.

"I voted to keep you," he explained.

"So he's getting rid of every board member who votes to keep me around," Greg concluded. A slightly hysterical, self-depreciating grin twisted Wilson's face.

"Yeah, every one of us."

"Just you?" He couldn't say he was surprised. Still, he couldn't help but feel a little disappointed in Cuddy.

"Yeah," Wilson said.

"But you're only off the board, right? They couldn't have got unanimous approval for you." Greg tried to ignore the sudden clench of panic. _Shit. Not good, not good, not good. _Wilson let out a puff of air and brought a hand up to rub at his eyes.

"Brown from Oncology voted no. So did Cuddy, Taylor and Peevey."

"Eh, so you're off the board, big deal. Frees up Wednesday nights for bowling," Greg said. Why did it feel like he was grasping at straws? "You're still a doctor–"

"Yeah, getting dumped looks great in Who's Who," Wilson said, pulling a book out of Greg's hands and throwing it in a box. "Vogler gave me the option of resigning, and I took it." Greg could see the barely held back anger in the tenseness of Wilson's shoulders. This was the closest he'd seen his friend to breaking in a while.

"Big of him," Greg muttered, almost afraid to meet Wilson's eyes. And Wilson finally lost it.

"I've got no kids, my marriage sucks," he bit out. "I've only got two things that work for me: this job and this stupid, screwed-up friendship, and neither mattered enough to you to give one lousy speech!" He threw a handful of pencils on top of the books, then leaned back slightly. His eyes searched Greg's, accusing, demanding an explanation.

Greg didn't really have one. He'd just… been himself. That had never really been a problem before. But looking into Wilson's eyes, seeing the hurt swimming in them… Greg felt two things he wasn't accustomed to feeling. Regret. Guilt. There was also a good dose of anger and awe. That Wilson cared about him that much… All the conflicting emotions made him want to either go hide in his office or try to make it better before it was too late, push Wilson against the wall and – he cut the thought off before it could be fully formed. He couldn't give Wilson the explanation he deserved, but maybe he could try to do some damage control.

"They matter," he said quietly. Greg was struck by the fact that it was the first time he'd ever really told Wilson he gave a crap. And he did care. More than was probably healthy, even though he'd never admit it. Something like relief and exasperation swept over Wilson's face. "If I could do it all again…"

"You'd do the same thing," Wilson finished on a sigh. The guilt almost choked him, but he knew Wilson was right. He nodded. "Well, you'll be gone soon too…"

Wilson turned away from him, and they stood there in silence for a while. Greg knew he was a bastard for asking after all that, but he really did need…

"Those clinical trials?" Wilson looked at him. For a moment, Greg thought he was going to tell him where he could stick his clinical trial. He had every right to. But Wilson just looked tired and held a hand out for the file.

"I'll make some calls," he said.

"Thanks."

And then Greg had left, not wanting to have to deal with the emotional minefield. He'd only had the experience of seeing Wilson that upset once or twice before. It always made him want to get back at whoever had caused it. He wanted to punch someone, but since the person responsible for the whole thing was himself he decided that wasn't the wisest course of action. He redirected his anger onto Cuddy since she was safer. If he'd gone to chew out Vogler he knew he'd end up caning the guy in the head. He didn't need a law suit on top of everything else. Depressingly, the only thing he got out of his confrontation with Cuddy were burning ears and an even more pissed off mood.

He threw himself into the case, trying not to think about what it all meant. Wilson and Greg had both admitted some pretty heavy things back there. He'd always known they had some sort of weird, slightly unhealthy codependency thing going on, but he'd never realized how deeply it ran.

Wilson was important. He hadn't understood how important Wilson was before, but he couldn't ignore it now. Wilson was the only person he could care about anymore, the only person he really understood, the only person who really understood _him_. The thought of losing that made something black and empty rip at his stomach.

He'd just always assumed that Wilson had more going for him than Greg and his job. It freaked him out to see just how similar they were. And now both of them were going to lose the two things that mattered most. Sure, he could still see Wilson after they both got fired, but it wouldn't be the same. He wondered if they'd ever recover from this. He almost couldn't believe it was actually happening.

Beyond all the panic and denial Greg tried to do what he did best. It was probably the last time he'd get to do it, anyway.

* * *

The first time James Wilson knew that Gregory House mattered to him more than anything man, God or Vogler could offer him was also the day he almost lost his job. Bless Cuddy for pulling a miracle in the eleventh hour, because James honestly didn't know what he would have done with himself otherwise. He'd been contemplating something along the lines of massive amounts of anti-depressants or a very tall building. Besides the whole holy-shit-I-lost-everything-and-now-it's-back-again factor, the experience had been surprising for a couple reasons. 

First it had been surprising because James had honestly thought that his job came before House. The bastard had snuck into first place without James noticing. It was so like him. It freaked James out a little that House was the most important thing in his life. It probably shouldn't, though. He'd been willing to do pretty-much anything for House before. Of course, House would only take what had happened as another indication that he could walk all over James and get away with it. Which he could. Shit. James was totally screwed.

The second surprising event had been that House had actually admitted to giving a damn. So what if he'd only done it after screwing James' life up almost irrevocably? It was a step in the right direction. Even if it was kind of pathetic that James had still felt relieved at hearing some sort of affirmation that their friendship wasn't completely one-way. Sure, he'd known that House had cared, but knowing something and hearing someone say it were two different things altogether. And now he sounded like a 13-year-old girl.

He sighed and slumped back into his chair. Chase and Foreman had gone shortly after Cuddy, leaving James and House to lounge around and finish off the rest of the champagne. They'd fallen silent after House had pulled out his i-Pod and hooked it up to the speakers. It was halfway through the second verse of Piano Man.

Wilson noticed House shoot him a searching look out of the corner of his eye. He'd been doing that occasionally ever since they'd been left alone. Something was really bugging him. James suspected what it was about, but he wasn't sure if he wanted to broach the subject. They'd both made some admissions they would've rather not made, and now they had to deal with the shift. For someone as blunt and obnoxious as House, he could be kind of skittish when it came to dealing with the serious or emotional stuff. James didn't want to scare him off. But when House shot him another look James decided enough was enough.

"What is it?" he asked. House glanced up, then looked away.

"Shouldn't you be getting back home?" he asked gruffly. Diverting. Okay, this was going to be a little tricky.

"Didn't we already go over this? Does the whole, 'my marriage sucks,' thing ring a bell?" James asked. "What's bothering you?"

House didn't answer for a long time.

"What you did today was supremely idiotic, even for you," he finally said. James let out a surprised laugh.

"What? How do you figure that?"

"You nearly lost your job and ended up losing the hospital a hundred million dollars. That's gotta be a record of some sort. Remind me to call the Guinness people."

James' eyes widened.

"Yeah, and don't forget to tell them about the man with the ego so large they had to knock down walls so he could fit into the building." James paused and got in a good glare. "Losing that hundred million dollars was _your_ screw-up, House! Or did you miss the fact that Vogler hated you so much he was willing to do anything to fire you?"

"Aw, now you're just being mean. Eddie and I had a connection that you wouldn't understand."

"True. I'm not one to indulge in immature, petty grudges just because I refuse to play along, and the other kid can buy more expensive toys."

"He stole all the prettiest strippers and wouldn't share, then he cut off my Internet porn," House said with an exaggerated pout. "But it _is _your fault about the one hundred million."

James nearly threw up his hands in exasperation.

"How is it my fault?" he asked.

"If you'd just gone along with Cuddy and the rest of the morons on the board, you'd still have your job and a bunch of shiny new drugs and research equipment that might've bought your bald kids another few months."

James felt like he'd been sucker-punched.

"So… you _wanted _to lose your job? Are you completely insane? You _live _for this job! Sometimes I think it's the only thing that keeps you going."

House glared at him.

"So pity the cripple, get fired? Is that what it is?" House asked. "I'm sick of your self-sacrificing act. It's stupid, illogical and misguided. I don't need you to stick up for me, Wilson," House said. "I'm a big boy. I can even tie my own shoes."

"House, you made it perfectly clear that you were _depending_ on me to defend you in that board meeting!" James protested.

"That's because I didn't realize how far that asshole would go!" House snapped back at him. "If I'd known–" He cut himself off. They stared at each other in silence for a few moments before House looked away.

"I just… don't like you trying to protect me when I don't need it. Not when it could cost you that much," House finally said, his voice just above a whisper.

James knew that House hated feeling helpless. The only thing he hated more than that was feeling pitied. Right now he was dealing with both. On top of that, House _cared _which was something he generally avoided at all costs. He also avoided talking about these kind of things. If it weren't for the half-bottle of champagne House probably wouldn't have said this much.

"It wasn't pity," James said finally. House snorted in disbelief. "It wasn't. And honestly, I didn't know that if I voted to keep you I'd lose my job. But even if I had…" he trailed off, and House looked up expectantly.

"Even if I had, I'd have done the same thing," James concluded.

"Why?" House asked. And for the first time since James had known him, House looked genuinely confused.

"Besides the abusive conversation, getting part of my lunch stolen everyday and being dragged into cases that often quickly turn unethical? I don't know. I suppose it would've gotten boring around here."

"And you think that's a good enough reason?" House asked, his face covered in disbelief. "You're dumber than I thought."

They looked at each other for a moment, small smiles creeping onto both their faces. It seemed that the silence spoke all the things they couldn't or wouldn't ever say. It was rare, but at times like this they occasionally came to a true understanding. House sighed and turned away.

"Okay," he said.

It would have to be enough.

* * *

A.N: Awwwwwws! I love the fluffy-disfunctional moments! Review for me, or the glow of joy shall fade... TT 


	4. Chapter 4

Okay. So, I have no excuse. This really shouldn't have taken this long to get out. I apologize. Just... life, man. Life.

As compensation, I've put out two chapters at once and added boy!smex to the second one. I hope that helps you to hate me less.

Betaed by the scrumtrilescent fearalchemist (Seymour) and the fantasmic pintsizeninja (Julia). I love you guyz. :D

Spoilers through _Safe._

* * *

The first time James Wilson realized he was in love with Gregory House was when Stacy Warner came to work at Princeton-Plainsboro. He'd always known that House had been pining away for Stacy since she had left, but to have the object of his friend's obsession suddenly become more than a distant memory forced him to make some quick adjustments. The most annoying adjustment was learning to deal with the sick, festering jealousy that seemed to accompany him wherever he went. 

He couldn't decide whether it helped or hurt that Stacy was his friend. On the plus side, it meant that he didn't do anything stupid. It forced him to try to see what would be the best for everyone involved, not just himself and House. He liked to think that his affection for Stacy was forcing him to appeal to his better nature. If she had been some unknown woman, he would have felt justified in hating her for taking House away from him. Even though House had never really been his to begin with. While it may have been easier if he could've hated her, that didn't mean it would have been better that way. However, he still found himself constantly battling against the resentment that kept trying to fight its way to the front of his mind.

He'd tried from the beginning to do what he thought was best. The last time he had seen Stacy, she had been happily engaged, chatting about her new life and her hopes for the future. They'd only talked about House for a few minutes after she'd casually asked how her ex was doing. He hadn't mentioned that he'd skipped out on a monster truck show with House to meet with her, but he'd still seen the guilt and concern on her face. Stacy may love Mark, but she still loved House, at least to a certain extent. And James knew better than anyone that love was something that you couldn't just wish away. He still loved his wife, and the bad marriage that any sane person would have left months ago was proof of that.

Julie was another complication. While his gut instinct may be to cringe at the idea of Stacy and House together, he recognized that there was really nothing to be done about it. What the hell did he expect? That Stacy would leave and House would finally realize that James had been there all along? He was still technically a married man. Plus, his relationship with House was rocky at best, especially this past year. He could only imagine how more fucked-up it would get if they were actually _involved_ with each other. Maybe it was better if things stayed the way they were between them.

James had a lot of experience with temptation, cheating and failed marriages. He'd counseled House to stay away from Stacy. He didn't want to see his friends making some of the many mistakes he'd made in the past. The _main_ thing he didn't want to see was House getting hurt. He knew how easily Stacy could cause House to backslide over the ground he'd gained during the past five years. Honestly, though, his jealousy _had_ played a part in his decision to warn House away from Stacy. He knew his feelings were irrational, but he couldn't seem to help them.

He hadn't been prepared for how strongly he'd react to the situation. When he'd seen House waltz into work six minutes early, then heard about what had gone on in Baltimore, it had hit him like a punch to the gut. He'd taken a few minutes to calm down, then went to Stacy's office and repeated his warning, knowing full well that he was probably crossing some sort of line. As Stacy had pointed out to him, it really wasn't any of his business, even if he felt like it damn-well _ought_ to be. The worst thing about it all was when he found out that House had probably only told him about it so that he would talk to Stacy and gather some more information. Of course, he'd played the good best friend and told House what Stacy had said anyway. He couldn't believe how spineless he could be sometimes.

He knew it was only a matter of time before Stacy and House got back together. They'd always been made for each other. If Stacy was willing to give Mark up, if she thought that House would make her happy, then who was he to stop it? The only time he'd ever seen House really happy was when he had been with Stacy. Wouldn't it be nice to see that again, even if he wasn't the one causing it? He refused to think about the bitterness that was clawing its way up his throat. He told himself that he would be happy for them. He didn't have any real control over what his two friends did, anyway.

James tried to ignore the way he could feel something _crack_ when Cameron came to him with her concerns about the fact that House had come in late, in a good mood, _singing. _Knowing it was going to happen eventually hadn't really prepared him for when it actually did. He decided that from now on he would put this damn infatuation, or whatever it was he had for House, behind him.

So he was surprised when he glanced into Stacy's office on his way out to find her packing her things into boxes. He backed up and gave her a questioning look through the glass. She looked back at him resigned, defeated. He opened the door and let himself in.

"What's… going on?" he questioned, at a loss.

"I'm going home," she said, her eyes darting down. He ignored the small flash of relief he felt. Her hands shuffled through a few papers and then slipped them into a file. She was trying to dismiss him.

"Wait a second," James said, utterly confused. "You two didn't…" she looked up. "You did, didn't you?" he felt a surge of anger when she looked down again and didn't deny it. "So what, you just didn't get around to telling Mark? You're going to stay with him? Do you have any idea what this is going to do to House?"

Stacy let out a slightly hysterical laugh, her eyes swimming with tears.

"Why the hell do you care?" she asked bitterly. "This should work out perfect for you." The venom in her voice, after months of building resentment and more than a little anger at both House and Stacy, was enough to make James snap.

"I _care_ because my two friendsare such idiots that they can't figure out what the hell they want, end up hurting each other _again,_ and _I'm _the one stuck in the middle!" He staunchly ignored the fact that there was more than a bit of hypocrisy in that statement.

"And your sterling record of broken relationships allows you to tell me how to manage mine?" she shouted. "You never had to be stuck in the middle, James. You jumped in yourself!"

"To try to stop you two from making a mistake! From the state of things, it looks like I was right!" he exclaimed. Stacy let out a bitter laugh.

"To stop _us_ from making a mistake, or to protect _him_? Or is it because you're pissed off that you can't get what you want?"

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Stop it, James! You're always with him, always _protecting_ him. Just— Stop pretending. You should be glad I'm leaving. I know you're in love with him," she bit out, not looking at him.

James opened his mouth to deny it, but even as he formed the words he couldn't voice them. Because suddenly, he realized that what she had just said was true. He froze, the anger flowing out of him to be replaced with shock and self-reproach. He almost wanted to laugh at his own stupidity. When he didn't say anything, Stacy looked up.

"You may have everyone else around here fooled, but I know both of you better than that. I'm right, aren't I?"

James let out a puff of air he wasn't aware he'd been holding.

"_I_ didn't even know," he said quietly.

"What?" she asked, the anger and hurt in her eyes dimming a little.

"Until you said that," he tried to explain. Her eyes widened in comprehension. They stared at each other for a few long moments. Her eyes searched his face. He didn't know what she found there, but after a while, the tension left her shoulders and she let out a sigh.

"Figures. You two are so different, but underneath it all… you're so similar. You're both completely stupid when it comes to anything related to your feelings." She walked around her desk, pulling her chair with her. "Sit. You look like you're about to fall over." She gently pushed him down and then pulled out the second chair that sat in the corner of her office, sitting across from him. They sat in silence for a while, giving James some time to digest the new piece of possibly life-altering information.

"You have to understand, Stacy," he started when he'd composed himself, "I never would have…" he trailed off, making a motion with his hand to try and explain what he couldn't express. "Most of me just wanted to see you two happy."

"Even if it hurt?" she asked. He looked away. "I know. I've always known that, and I'm sorry about what I said. I guess I was just taking things out on you."

"Oh. I'm sorry too." He had no idea what else to say to that. She smiled slightly.

"To tell you the truth, though, if you hadn't looked so pole-axed, I probably would have ripped you to pieces," she said. He laughed slightly.

"Well, there's one good thing that came out of this revelation. Whatever the hell this is," he said. "How did you know?"

"Please, James. It wasn't that hard to see if you knew what to look for. I suppose I've known you both for too long. At first I just thought it was me being paranoid… but there's a way you look at him. Even before the infarction. And after, well, I'd have to be a complete idiot not to notice it then." She smiled to take the implied insult out of her words.

"I really _am _an idiot," he said. They sat in silence for a moment. "I meant what I said, though, Stacy. I wouldn't be happy to see you leave. If I'm part of the reason you are then—"

"You're being dramatic again," she cut him off. "I was going to stay and leave Mark. He didn't want me to."

"What?" His eyes widened. Just when he thought he was starting to understand the situation again, she threw him another curve ball. House had been chasing Stacy for months. It didn't make any sense. "Why?" he asked. She sighed.

"I'm too tired to talk about this right now, James. I don't know if I'm _ready_ to talk about this yet. Basically, I took a gamble and I lost. I have to deal with that. Maybe you should go ask him about it if you want to know."

"Oh. Stacy, I'm sorry." That didn't even begin to make the situation better, but he had to try something. She was hurting, probably as badly as she'd been right before she left five years ago.

"Nothing to apologize for. I'm sorry that I dumped that on you. You're my friend, James. Sometimes, things get screwed up and I wish that you weren't, but I do care about you." Strange that she would be voicing exactly how he'd been feeling for months. Now, though, seeing how defeated she was, James couldn't help but feel angry at House again, not only for hurting Stacy, but for denying himself something that would've made him happy.

"I don't know his reasons," James started, "and I know it probably doesn't help, but he's being an ass. You're probably the best thing that ever happened to him." Stacy smiled.

"Thanks." They stood up and she gave him a brief hug. "Now go bother him like I know you will. I think I saw him headed for the roof." She headed back to her packing and he headed for the door.

"James?" she called out just as he reached for the door handle, her back still to him. "I never did… thank you for taking care of him. Just keep doing what you're doing, okay? He needs _someone,_ whether he admits it or not." She turned around and smiled. "I'm still going to expect regular calls from you."

James smiled back. They still had a lot to talk about, but they'd deal with that later. He hoped that somehow, they'd be okay.

"Sure." Then he left, and headed for the roof.

He wasn't exactly sure why House had decided to force her into leaving him again, but he had some ideas on the subject. He put off his own freak out over that little phrase, _I'm in love with him_, until later. He was only sure of one thing.

House had some explaining to do.

The first time Gregory House realized that he didn't really need Stacy Warner anymore was also the first time he got dangerously close to throwing his self-inflicted rules in regards to James Wilson out the window. Part of him still couldn't believe that he'd actually sent Stacy away. She'd been his personal Holy Grail for so long that he didn't know what to do now that it appeared she wasn't anymore.

He didn't fully understand why he'd sent her away. Sure, part of the reason was that he was fairly certain they were doomed to fail from the beginning and that she would be happier without him, but there was more to it than that. Somehow, even though overall he'd been happy to have her with him, something about it was… _off_. There was something there between them that hadn't been there before. Or maybe it was just that he was noticing something missing that he hadn't noticed before. He couldn't be completely sure.

Part of it was that he didn't like change. Granted, he was pissed off and miserable most of the time, but that was the way things had been for a while. Maybe he _liked _things that way. It had been working pretty well for him up until now. It was never good to interrupt the status quo. Besides, he'd freaked his minions out with that one display of happiness. What the hell would happen to them if he started acting like that more frequently? He was sure that Cameron's head would explode, which, while amusing, would be unfortunate. He needed her to run tests, after all.

He hadn't really _wanted_ to send Stacy away. God knew he felt bad enough about it now. He could only imagine how pissy, annoyed and depressed he'd be in the weeks to come. It had to be this way, though. He wasn't sure about a lot of things, but he did know that.

He had also discovered that he didn't want Stacy the same way he used to. Part of him still loved her, but more of him didn't want to put up with the hassle that was involved. There were so many new elements to deal with. They'd both changed; Greg, not so much, but Stacy almost seemed like a completely different person now. Plus there was the complication of Mark and, Greg didn't want to admit it, but Wilson, too.

It wasn't like he wanted to be _with_ Wilson. He wanted… Greg didn't know _what _he wanted. He wanted to be able to have Wilson without changing anything between them. He wanted to be able to feel Wilson's body close to his without losing the playful arguing. He wanted to run his hands over Wilson's back and shoulders without losing the satisfaction of never having to pay for his own lunch. He wanted to, God help him, _kiss _Wilson without losing his open invitation to jump over the railing between their balconies and bug him during the day. His attraction to the man hadn't changed, even though he'd tried his best to ignore it.

He was so close to just forgetting all his arguments for why going after Wilson was A Bad Idea. It terrified him. He didn't know what the hell was wrong with him, but he seriously needed to get this under control. He didn't want to change things. Really. He had to keep telling himself that. Things had been going relatively well up until now; he couldn't afford to let it all go to hell.

Greg looked up as the subject of his thoughts burst through the door. He looked like he was holding back a fair amount of anger before he trained his face into a more calm expression. He'd probably just come from talking to Stacy. Greg couldn't say he was surprised.

"What did you tell her?" Wilson asked. Greg sighed and looked up.

"I told her she's better off without me."

"Huh." Wilson didn't sound convinced. "That's probably true." Greg glared at him and popped a couple vicodin. Wilson rubbed his hand over his mouth, turned away from him, then turned back again. "You're an idiot," he stated, his expression a cross between disbelief and exasperation. Greg stared at him.

"You don't think she'd be better off without you," Wilson continued, shaking his head slightly.

"Right. I sent her off on a whim," Greg said disdainfully, moving to get up.

"You have no idea why you sent her off!"

"Don't do this," Greg said sternly, walking past Wilson. He couldn't deal with this. He didn't want Wilson analyzing the reasons why he'd sent Stacy away. It hit too close to home. Of course, his warning didn't work. This was Wilson after all.

"This was no great sacrifice. You sent her away because you've _got _to be miserable!" House snapped.

"That kinda psycho-crap help your patients get through the long nights?" he asked sarcastically. "Or is it just for you? Tough love make you feel good, helping people feel their pain?"

Greg knew he'd miscalculated when Wilson didn't shout back at him. His friend's eyes darted to the ground, going a little unfocused. He seemed sad, disappointed… and something else that Greg couldn't really define. It looked like a cross between contemplation and pain. Like Wilson wasn't really thinking about what Greg had said, but something else entirely. They were both silent for a moment. Finally, Wilson tilted his chin up and looked at him.

"You don't like yourself," he said, "but you do admire yourself. It's all you've got so you cling to it. You're so afraid if you change… you'll lose what makes you special." He turned as if to go, but then turned back. "Being miserable doesn't make you better than anybody else, House. It just makes you miserable." Then he really was leaving, and House was left alone again.

He looked out past the hospital. Sometimes it really freaked him out how well Wilson understood him. He supposed that he shouldn't be so surprised by it anymore. He'd gotten a lot more right about House's reasoning than he probably knew. And that crap about being miserable… who the hell did Wilson think he was, anyway? Greg's frown teased into a smirk for a moment.

This was exactly why he could never get involved with Wilson. He'd probably only have the upper-hand half the time.

Greg wasn't entirely sure he liked those odds.

* * *

The first time Gregory House realized that he would never really understand James Wilson was around the time that Julie kicked him out. Everyone, even Greg, had a set mode of operation. Greg was frighteningly good at predicting other people's actions, even if he'd only known the person for a few seconds. It was what made him so good at what he did. Strangely, though, he'd known Wilson for _years_, and Wilson was the only person who constantly surprised him. 

He had been one-hundred percent positive that Wilson had been doing one of the things Wilson did best; namely, screwing around. There was something about Wilson that made him so fucking _good_ at seducing unsuspecting women that Greg was sure he had a trophy for it stashed away somewhere. He wondered if it had something to do with the look Wilson got on his face when he was being openly sympathetic and caring. Greg knew _he'd_ had to hold himself back several times when Wilson had made that face at him. Whether it was holding himself back from dragging Wilson into the bedroom or punching him in the jaw, Greg still wasn't completely sure.

When he'd seen the signs that Wilson's attention was straying from Julie and onto someone else, Greg had greeted it like he had any of the other times he'd thought Wilson was screwing around. It was so easy to get to Wilson that the sniping and caustic remarks almost flew out of his mouth without him consciously deciding to voice them. It was easier to torture Wilson about his infidelity than it was to actually think about what was going on. He knew Wilson would never admit to anything; it was a safe game to play. So he'd been unpleasantly surprised when he'd walked by Wilson remarking on the fact that he still hadn't told his wife, and Wilson had slapped his pen down onto the desk and stood.

"Let's say you're right," he said. Greg turned around and narrowed his eyes suspiciously.

"You're saying I'm right?"

"No," Wilson denied. "_Let _us say." Greg's eyes darted around and he moved a bit closer as Wilson continued talking. "Does it occur to you that maybe there's some deeper guidance than, 'Keep your mouth shut'? That maybe a friend might value concern over glibness? That maybe…" Wilson trailed off, looked away and rubbed his hand over his mouth nervously. "Maybe I'm going through something that I need to have an actual conversation about?"

He looked up at Greg again, and Greg groaned internally. _This _look was worse than the you-can-talk-to-me-'cause-I'm-such-a-nice-guy look that Wilson regularly threw around. He looked confused, pleading…_lost_. For all that Wilson needed neediness in others, Greg had never seen him look so needy himself. It was just so _wrong_ for Wilson to look like that, and it was wreaking havoc on Greg's already-fucked-up emotions regarding his best friend.

He hadn't expected Wilson to want to actually _talk. _If he had, he never would have kept bringing the subject up. If there was one thing Greg _didn't _want to hear about, it was Wilson's latest conquest. Because he couldn't play the sympathetic best friend. He'd never been good with platitudes, and he honestly _didn't want to hear about it._ Because it really wasn't all that interesting. Because Greg didn't _really _care what the hell Wilson did in his free time. Because he was absolutely not jealous at all.

The high-pitched whine of his beeper brought him out of his thoughts.

"Did it occur to you that if you need _that _kind of a friend, you may have made some deeper errors?" Greg asked, ignoring how Wilson went from looking lost to crushed. He knew he was an asshole, but sometimes he wished he could be a better person, be a better friend to Wilson than he was. But only sometimes.

So when Wilson had showed up a few days later and told Greg that _Julie_ had been the one to, quite literally, fuck everything up, _surprise _hadn't even begun to cover the way Greg felt about it. One of the more regrettable side effects of always being right was that when you were wrong, you had no clue how to process the knew information. The fact that Wilson _hadn't _been cheating… it just didn't fit. It was like rolling a fixed pair of dice and getting snake-eyes instead of a seven.

Greg had chalked it up to an inexplicable one-time occurrence and proceeded to make Wilson's life more miserable than it already was. Those first few days, he wasn't sure that he could deal with Wilson's psycho-morning habits and the other, more important problem that the object of his inappropriate desires was accessibly lying on his couch every night. It certainly didn't help him sleep better. Of course, this was before he had factored in the variable that, dear God, Wilson could _cook. _And by "cook" he meant, "had the ability of creating pancakes that are capable of making people come in their pants."

That would have been enough for him to keep Wilson around for an extra day or two, but _then _Wilson had proceeded to become insanely amusing and interesting whenever Greg pulled pranks worthy of a two-year-old. Greg liked that when Wilson was exasperated, he forgot to be completely miserable. The way that Wilson was dragging through the days like someone had killed his puppy bothered Greg. Though he would never admit it, he hated seeing Wilson so resigned, and he'd made it his personal mission to snap him out of it. While the way Greg did that might have seemed a bit unorthodox, he was positive it got Wilson focused on something other than his personal problems. If it got him focused on Greg in the interim, well, that was just a bonus.

Of course, Greg hadn't expected Wilson to really retaliate. He _knew_ Wilson, Wilson had been his friend for over a decade, and he was sure that Wilson had an almost inexhaustible amount of patience when it came to Greg. Even though Wilson would bitch and whine, he wouldn't really do anything to get back at him. Wilson liked to put out the image that he was an adult, mature and ultimately above such things, for all the good it would do him. Wilson thought that getting back at Greg would only prove that he had won. Greg was safe in the knowledge that his friend would never stoop to his level.

Wilson had surprised him _again_ by coming up with a prank that was so utterly brilliant that Greg was kind of disappointed that he hadn't thought of it first. Not that he could've used it on Wilson, but he should've been anticipating all the ways Wilson _could've_ been getting his revenge. Greg hadn't seen it coming at all up until the moment that his cane snapped out from under him. Honestly, he'd still been confused about what exactly had happened until Wilson had dead-panned, "Wow. Looks like somebody filed halfway through your cane while you were sleeping." Apparently, Greg had been wrong about a lot of things when it came to his judgment of Wilson's character.

After a while, Greg was surprised that he actually enjoyed having Wilson around, probably more than he should. Since he'd first met him, Wilson had always been an anomaly to Greg, and finding out just how much of an anomaly he was turned out to be more fun than it ought to be. Sure, it did nothing to stem his interest in the man, actually made the attraction stronger, but he'd be damned if it wasn't worth it. Greg found that he _liked _being surprised by Wilson.

Who would've thought that Gregory House could like surprises?


	5. Chapter 5

As I am terrified that I'll get booted off I have edited the smex scene in this. The link to the full and unedited version be in my profile. Enjoy.

Spoilers through _House vs. God_

* * *

The first time James Wilson finally made himself believe that he could never have Gregory House was when he made one of the biggest mistakes of his life. Even _during_ the incident, he'd _known_ he was being the stupidest he'd ever been. There were some things James thought he would never be stupid enough to do, and sleeping with a patient was one of them. Sometimes, though, James got to a point where he couldn't take it anymore, where he had to do _something_ to stop whatever vicious cycle he found himself in. His emotions had overrode his reason, but when it came to things involving House, they often did. 

James had been staying with House for a couple months when he'd realized that he definitely had a problem that needed to be corrected. He'd come in late and exhausted from work to find House passed out on the couch, the television casting changing light and shadows over his face. The ensuing rush of affection and reflexive reaction had caught him completely off-guard. He hadn't even thought about it at the time, but he'd placed his briefcase down, hung his coat up, walked over to the couch and stooped over, leaning in… With a jolt, he'd stopped himself to discover his face inches away from House's. Without thinking about it, he'd been leaning in to _kiss_ House, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He couldn't be completely sure when, but somewhere along the line, he'd gotten comfortable living with House. Things had become (he inwardly cringed at the term) _domestic_ between them. Hell, the way they argued over House refusing to do the dishes, the way James cooked for him, the way they continued talking even through the bathroom door… it was like they were an old married couple. House had even let-up on the pranks completely after he'd realized he was only hurting himself in some cases; that prank with the bowl of water hadn't been the most well-thought-out.

After the initial rough-patch of anger and arguments when they'd been learning how to live together, there hadn't been that many problems. James had actually enjoyed it for a while. He'd enjoyed the nights spent in companionable silence sitting next to each other on the couch. He'd enjoyed the jokes and friendly sniping. He'd enjoyed being able to put aside the banter and just _talk _sometimes, mostly about things of little or no consequence. Living with House was at times exasperating, interesting and eye-opening, but overall it was _fun. _James had never been in a living situation he could describe as being fun before.

But what he'd realized around the time that he'd nearly kissed a sleeping House was that it was making him want things he couldn't have. After that, it became painful. It was giving him a glimpse into something that would never be, it was torturing him with the ultimately unattainable. By the end of the third month, he'd decided that something would have to change. He couldn't take it anymore. He'd rather force himself to stay away from House completely than to have what he wanted dangled in front of him like a carrot. He couldn't let himself hope that things would change between them. He'd seen enough shattered hopes in his line of work that he wasn't too keen to experience some a little closer to home.

He loved House. That realization in itself was still too new and raw. Staying with House was just pouring salt in the wound. It was just driving home the fact that House may care about him to some extent, but he would never love James back. That was so certain to James that it _hurt. _He couldn't make it stop hurting, but he _could _refuse to let it get to him.

He sighed and grabbed his coat. He'd been looking for apartments for a few days, and hopefully he'd be able to move out of House's place by the end of the week. He still hadn't gotten around to telling House yet. He ran the conversation over in his head as he walked outside to his car.

He stopped when he noticed a small, huddled form sitting on the bench. As he walked past, he saw the short mop of reddish-brown hair, the deep rings under the eyes, lines of stress etched into her face. He looked at his watch. She had left from their appointment almost an hour ago. Something must be wrong.

"Grace?" he asked, walking over to where she sat.

"Doctor Wilson," she greeted quietly. Even when she was in pain she had that soothing, melodic quality to her voice.

"What are you still doing here?"

"I suppose my friend ran into some trouble at work. I don't have my cell-phone with me, so I decided to wait for a while. I guess I'll just catch the bus now that it looks like she's not going to come."

She winced as she shifted on the bench. They'd been trying to adjust her meds for a while now, and the newest cocktail hadn't been working the way it should. She'd been in a lot of pain lately. James hated when he lost a patient. The worst part was knowing that he'd lost her, but still seeing her regularly, watching her slowly deteriorate until eventually…

"Well, the next bus doesn't come for another half-hour. You need to rest. Why don't I give you a ride home?" he asked. She gave him a gentle smile.

"Thank you, but you don't have to do that."

"No, really it's fine. I insist," he flashed his most charming smile. She ought to be home in bed, not sitting on some godforsaken bench and trying to ignore the pain.

"Well… alright."

Ten minutes later they pulled up in front of her apartment, and she invited him in for coffee. From his interviews with Grace, he knew that she was pretty much alone in the world. No parents, no siblings, only a few friends who had their own lives to deal with. She'd always been strong, ever since he first started treating her. Sometimes he wondered how she kept going. She must be starved for any real human interaction. He accepted her invitation.

"Why don't you tell me where the coffee is and I'll get it ready? You should sit down," he said when they got inside. She was moving slowly, almost as if every step hurt, so he helped her over to the couch. When he let go of her arm and moved back, he couldn't decipher the look on her face. After a moment of silence, she looked away.

"Thank you. The coffee pot is on the left counter, coffee in the cupboard just above it."

When he went to the kitchen, he found that the only thing in the cupboard was the coffee. Frowning, James looked in the other cupboards only to find them equally as bare. The fridge was nearly empty as well. He put the coffee on anyway and went back to the living room.

"When was the last time you ate?" he asked. "I couldn't help but notice that the cupboards were a little… empty."

"I just ran out of things yesterday. I was planning on going to go to the grocer's… but I've just been so tired…" she trailed off, almost as if she were ashamed of herself.

"Well, you're going to need to eat sometime in the near future. It's kind of important," he said with a smile. "Why don't I go out and pick up some groceries for you?"

"If you don't mind…" she said hesitantly. "I mean, I really don't want to be a bother, but things have just been so…hard lately. I feel completely useless."

James frowned. It was sad to see her like this. She'd come to accept her illness, but she had refused to let it slow her down. It seemed like it was becoming too much for her. He leaned over and squeezed her shoulder gently.

"You're one of the strongest people I've ever met, Grace," he tried to reassure her. "You are anything but useless." She lifted her face to look at him, her lips quirking up in a smile.

"Thank you."

An hour later, he'd filled her cupboards and fridge with groceries and made dinner. After they ate, he helped her into her room at her request. She sat down on the mattress, looking better than she had a couple hours ago. Probably because she'd had another dose of pain meds since then. The dinner probably helped, too.

"Are you feeling any better?" he asked.

"Yes. Much better now, thank you." There was a slightly awkward silence.

"Well, if you're sure you're okay, I should probably get going…" he said. He turned as if to go, but she reached out and grabbed his wrist.

"No. Stay. Please." She tugged him closer, looking at him imploringly. His eyes widened. Jesus, why hadn't he seen it coming?

"Grace, I don't think that's…" he trailed off, and she stood up, standing so close to him he could feel her breath on his face. Everything in him was screaming to back away, to get out, but for some reason he couldn't move.

"Please, James…" she began, her voice desperate. "Please. You've always been so kind to me, and… I need to know that I'm not dead, not so alone. I've felt like I have been for so long now. I don't know how much more of this I can stand. I-I…I just… need you. Please." She was crying now, tears spilling down her cheeks as she shook slightly.

Maybe it was his own fear and loneliness reaching out to hers, trying to find someone who could understand. Maybe it was the fact that she was in so much pain all the time, and he didn't want to see her go through any more. Maybe it was because he'd always admired her, always thought she was a wonderful and beautiful human being who didn't deserve the cards she'd been dealt. Maybe it was because James was a complete sucker for anyone who "needed" him. Whatever the reason, he stopped thinking about it so much, and pulled her closer.

She immediately brought her arms up to hold him, almost desperately trying to bring them even closer together. She lifted her head, leaned up and brought their lips together. She kissed him deeply, gently, exploring as if it was the last time she would ever kiss anyone. With a start, he realized that it might very well be the last time. She tugged on his shirt, sitting down on the bed, pulling him down with her, and James forgot to think at all.

The next morning, he woke up in a strange bed with Grace tucked into his side, her breath coming steady and even, sleeping deeply; probably for the first time in weeks. He had the obligatory moment of mental panic. He was so fucking screwed… and not in the good way.

Just before he was ready to start hyperventilating, he looked down to see her beautiful face gently relaxed in sleep. The stress lines that were almost always there were completely smoothed out, and there was even a slight smile on her lips. He felt a small amount of affection seeing her like this. Maybe it wasn't such a bad thing after all.

He liked Grace. She was a good person, and she needed someone to take care of her. She was dying. She deserved a little kindness and affection in her final months, didn't she? If he could provide that for her, was that so terrible? Maybe he deserved to have someone to care for who would appreciate it, who would care back…

And that's where it all came back to House. A wicked part of his mind whispered that maybe this was just what he needed, a distraction from his best friend, something to stop him from dwelling on the fact that he would never get what he really wanted, that his love would never be reciprocated. Maybe this would help him get over House, or at least get to a point where he could deal with his feelings and accept that he could never have House the way he wanted.

Shit. What would House say when he found out? He'd probably shout at him for being such a moron, probably make a few biting remarks about James' inability to keep it in his pants… James stopped that line of thought. He could never let House find out.

House couldn't find out because no one could find out. If anyone did, he'd be out of a job. Besides, he didn't need _House_, of all people, questioning his morals. It would just be a big hassle and it wouldn't solve anything. He ignored the small part of his mind that said that wasn't the real reason. That he wanted to believe that maybe House would be upset with him past the concern of a friend, the censure of a colleague. That maybe House would be angry at James because he'd slept with someone, because he'd lied to him about it; not just because that someone was a patient.

James could see the way House would look at him, the amused and teasing grin that would light his face as he'd make a few rude remarks, tease James about it, and then turn and go back to listening to his i-Pod. The way that House _wouldn't care _that James had slept with someone, that he'd made a huge mistake, beyond the amount of biting comedic material he could get out of it. James had already learned recently just how disinterested House was in his love-life except when he could torture him with it. If House found out than any small amount of hope or denial would die out completely.

He thought that _that, _above everything else, would show him just how impossible it would be for House to ever come to care for him. That small, irrational part of his mind would like to think that House might even be jealous or hurt by his… "relationship" with Grace, if even just a little. James didn't think he was ready to deal with the fact that House would never see him as anything but a friend.

Grace shifted next to him, her eyes fluttering as she woke up. She tightened her grip around his waist and raised her head from where it was resting on his chest.

"Morning," she greeted with a smile, leaning up to kiss him.

"Morning," he replied, his hands rubbing across her back.

"Stay with me?" she asked, her eyes suddenly serious.

James answered the only way he possibly could.

"Okay."

* * *

The first time Gregory House realized he might feel something for James Wilson beyond simple affection and lust was also the first time that Wilson successfully lied to him about something important. Sure, Wilson had lied to him before, but it had never been about something this huge; something that could've helped him figure out his case sooner. At first, Greg attributed his anger to that. He was angry because Wilson was standing in the way of his puzzle, because Wilson had lied to him just like every stupid patient he'd ever had. 

But even within those first few moments of uncovering the truth, of outing Wilson in front of dry cleaner, tax accountant and guy from the bus stop, Greg realized that this amount of anger was a little too much for it to be perturbation at having an important clue kept from him. Honestly, half the fun of the puzzle was the challenge of figuring it out, getting around the road blocks that people threw up in his way. Greg had gotten so angry that he'd been stupid enough to call Wilson on it in front of three other people. Three people who could easily figure out where Wilson worked and report him. Greg hadn't been thinking about that, though. He'd just wanted to see Wilson squirm, to see him suffer. He wanted Wilson to feel a bit of the betrayal and anger he was currently going through.

When he got right down to it, his reaction to finding out that Wilson had been sleeping with cancer chick wasn't the reaction of an understandably pissed-off best friend. He'd had problems with jealousy when it came to Wilson before, but it had never been as strong as it was now. Greg was feeling disappointed not only because Wilson had lied to him, but because he'd thought that maybe Wilson would lay off the Casanova impersonation for a while… at least until his divorce was finalized. Greg had been looking forward to having Wilson's attention resting solely on him for that small amount of time. To have that yanked out from under him was kind of irritating.

After Chase's call and the resulting epiphany, Greg suddenly felt the need to get out of the room. He couldn't stand the look on Wilson's face. He kind of looked like a pissed-off kicked-puppy. Greg also couldn't stand the way his stomach was tying itself up in knots. Wilson being Wilson, though, hadn't taken the hint and had followed him into the kitchen.

"Tell them my name isn't Wilson," he said almost desperately as Greg looked through the fridge and grabbed a tupperware full of fruit for Steve.

"Most people in your situation just have their careers to worry about. You've got that and divine retribution," Greg sniped.

"Tell them," Wilson insisted. Greg was so angry that he could barely see straight, and the fact that all Wilson was worried about was his career just brought the anger up a notch.

"Tell me how it happened, and I'll tell them whatever you want," he bargained. It might not be the best thing for his unraveling psyche, but Greg wanted to know whose fault it was so he could know whether to strangle Wilson or cancer chick or both.

Wilson sighed and shook his head.

"She'd had a bad day, pain-wise," he began. "Her ride didn't show up to take her home…"

"So you offered," Greg prompted.

"Yeah. She didn't have any groceries. She was too sick to go out. I figured I could afford to take a half hour and pick her up a few things and…"

"Stay and make sure she's okay…" Greg added, revolted at the triteness of it.

"Yeah."

"And never leave," Greg said, his bitterness seeping through. "You told me you got an apartment, but you moved in with her. You lied to me," he pointed out next, trying to keep his tone as light as possible. It wouldn't be good to let Wilson know how angry he really was.

Wilson whispered out a choked, "Tell them," and gestured emphatically towards the poker table. Greg fought back an eye-roll. He didn't think he could get more disgusted with his friend than he was now. He leaned to peer around Wilson's shoulder.

"His name is not Wilson," he announced, "and he's screwed up worse than I am." He finished with a pointed glare in his friend's direction.

"Okay, yes, I lied to you. I'm sorry."

"Half the doctors who specialize in oncology turn into burnt out cases, but you," Greg began with a gesture towards Wilson, "you eat neediness." There was a little more resentment in his tone than he was looking for, but he hoped it got his point across.

"Lucky for you," Wilson observed, turning around and walking away.

The second Wilson turned his back on him, the anger Greg had been holding at bay sky-rocketed. If Wilson thought they were done, he had another thing coming.

"Thanks for the game, guys," Wilson said while grabbing his coat. "I don't think I'll be coming back."

"You're a functional vampire," Greg stated from the kitchen doorway. "Sure, you're heroic, useful to society, but only because it feeds you." Wilson ignored him, leaving and closing the door behind him. Greg bit back an exasperated sigh.

"There's nothing worth stealing, so don't even look," he told the three guys still sitting at his poker table, then followed Wilson out the door.

"You don't just have a fetish for needy people," he exclaimed when he got outside. "You marry them!" Wilson threw his hands up.

"Here we go," he said without turning around.

"You mean it! And then time passes and suddenly they're not so needy anymore," Greg said. He realized that this wasn't just about cancer-chick anymore, It was about every useless woman Wilson had ever gotten involved with. "Your fault. You've been there for them too much. They're getting healthy, independent, and that's just ugly."

Belatedly, Greg realized that maybe he shouldn't be going after Wilson like this, that maybe he was giving away too much. He couldn't help himself, though. It was like suddenly all of his resentment for all the women Wilson had ever been with was crashing over him, and he was powerless to stop it. There was even a large amount of resentment towards Wilson mixed in there. Greg wondered if the only reason Wilson ever had anything to do with him at all was because he saw Greg as being "needy". If there was one thing he couldn't stand, it was people pitying him. That it would come from Wilson hurt more than Greg would've expected it to.

"God, you must be pissed at God right now," Greg continued, not letting up on the assault, "for making her all happy."

"Why are you doing this?" Wilson asked, suspicious and more than a little angry himself. Okay, so Greg had _definitely _given away a little too much with his diatribe.

"Because you're being stupid!" he explained. The excuse sounded lame even to his own ears. Wilson laughed bitterly. "You know what you're risking by sleeping with a patient." And that was so not convincing anyone. Greg hadn't seemed too concerned about Wilson's career when he was shouting about his mistake in front of three other people.

"Oh, that's crap!" Wilson said. "You're not mad because I'm risking my job. You're not even mad 'cause I lied to you. You're mad because I lied to you and you couldn't tell!" There was something disappointed and bitter in Wilson's eyes as he said that.

"Yeah, you got me nailed," Greg said sarcastically, even though Wilson had it partly right. He turned and started walking away. Greg was thankful that Wilson didn't seem to suspect anything else, didn't seem to suspect the real reasons.

"Yeah. That's why you didn't want me in your poker game," Wilson continued. Greg stopped and turned around, "because when it comes to being in control, Gregory House leaves our faith-healer kid in the dust." Wilson had followed him across the street and pointed an accusing finger at him. "And that's why religious belief annoys you. Because if the universe operates by abstract rules you can learn them and you can protect yourself. If a supreme being exists he can squash you anytime he wants."

"He knows where I am," Greg stated, refusing to let Wilson get to him.

And perfectly timed, his cell-phone went off. And perfectly in character, Wilson offered to drive him to the hospital even though they'd just had their only real fight in months.

Greg had to put everything on hold for a while as he figured out how to raise Jesus from the dead (metaphorically at least). It wasn't until later that he was really able to examine what had happened between him and Wilson.

Point number one of interest was that though Greg had been able to deal with Wilson's many trysts in the past, it didn't seem like he was able to deal with them anymore. Just the thought of cancer-chick holding Wilson close, of Wilson spending every night in her bed… it was enough to make Greg want to scream and yell until his voice was hoarse. It was enough to make him want to go tell cancer-chick in no-uncertain terms to keep her grubby, radiation-ridden hands off of _his _best friend, thank-you-very-much. It was enough to make him want to pull Wilson close and show him just _who_ he belonged to, that if he went around whoring himself out he'd have to deal with Greg punching him in the face and then fucking him into next week.

Point number two of interest was that it seemed as if Greg had some unresolved resentment built up against Wilson. He wasn't sure of Wilson's motives towards him. That uncertainty bothered Greg. Was Wilson just hanging around because he saw in Greg another one of his charity cases? He didn't like the idea that all he was to Wilson was a way to feed his need to be needed. God knew that Greg didn't _need _Wilson. Wanted him, yes, was obsessed with him even, but he didn't _need_ him.

Point number three of interest was that Greg had finally come to a point where he was ready to just give in. Wilson had said they were okay after the fight (well, he'd _implied_ it, anyway), but what would happen the next time around? The only solution that Greg could see was if he stopped lying to himself and finally went after what he'd wanted for so long. He didn't really have much to lose, did he? Even if he made an overture and Wilson rejected it, Wilson was the type of guy who would stick around anyway. What the hell, he already had the obsessive jealousy and possessiveness when it came to Wilson, he might as well be getting sex out of it.

He'd let things calm down between them first, though. Greg still had a lot of thinking to do about the whole cancer-chick thing and his feelings in regards to his friend. Greg hated thinking about his feelings, but he supposed that in this case it was necessary. He'd wait for a while and see how things developed.

Contrary to popular belief, Greg could be patient when he needed to be.

* * *

The first time Gregory House kissed James Wilson things got a little out of hand. The night it happened hadn't really been anything out of the ordinary, either. Actually, it all seemed a little… anti-climactic. Then again, real-life was never anything like the movies or romance novels. James certainly hadn't seen it coming. After all, he'd come to the decision that Greg would never want him, and it was easier to try and forget about his attraction, or learn to deal with it, than it was to spend the rest of his life mindlessly pining after his best friend. He hadn't counted on the fact that Greg had decided to do the exact opposite. And like most other things, when Greg led the way, James followed. 

It was a Friday night about a month after the whole incident with Grace, and things seemed like they were finally back to normal. Greg had invited James over for dinner and television (well, not so much _invited _as popped his head into James' office and grunted, "My place, seven. Bring Chinese,") and James had eagerly accepted. Anything to get him out of his boring hotel room for a night.

They'd finished eating and were channel surfing, sitting companionably next to each other on Greg's couch like it was any other night. James had pointed out that they could have just watched the TV Guide channel, but Greg insisted that that took all the fun out of it. For some reason, though, Greg had allowed James to be the one controlling the remote.

"Hey, wait. Go back," Greg said after James skipped over the hundredth channel of the evening.

"What? Why?" James asked, going back anyway. "I didn't think you liked reality television."

"It's _The Simple Life_. Any show with breasts and bodies _that_ fake hardly counts as reality television."

"Ah. I wonder if she considers raking animal manure to be a step up or a step down from the porn?"

"Normally, I'd say that shoveling horse shit is _always _a step down from having sex."

"But in this case you aren't because…?"

"If you'd actually _seen_ it, you'd know. She spends half the time talking on her cell-phone, sounding insanely bored. There's nothing worse than bad sex. Especially if you're paying for it."

"I suppose you would know this from your vast amount of experience in the area," James observed. Greg snorted.

"Whereas the sex _you _have is always fraught with guilt and shame. That always makes sex better," he snapped. "Considering the amount of guilt and shame involved in your _last _affair, I'd say the sex must have been fairly phenomenal. Though it would probably had to have been, anyway, to be worth risking your job over." The cruel comment hit James like a slap to the face. He took a deep breath.

"Drop it, House. Honestly, it's been a month. I would've thought that even _you_, overbearing and self-obsessed as you are, would have been able to let that go by now." His voice was bitter and more than a little petulant. "Why the hell does it matter to you so much?"

And with that simple question, the entire mood of the room changed. James felt Greg tense beside him. Greg paused for a moment, weighing his options, and made a decision. He reached over and snatched the remote from James, turning the television off with an almost violent click. James turned towards him on the couch, his eyes questioning, waiting for the explosion he probably thought was coming. Greg smiled wickedly and grabbed his friend by the shoulders, ignoring the way he went rigid, and leaned in to slam their lips together.

For a moment, James was completely at a loss. His mind went completely blank except for a litany of, _Waitaminute,whatthehell,timeout! _Greg could feel that his friend wasn't responding, probably in shock, so he tried to get what he could out of it before James came to his senses. Greg kissed like he did everything else; no pretense, all tongue and teeth and _heat_, like he was giving one of his often-acidic speeches with their mouths pressed together.

It probably only took James a moment to get with the program, but that instant of confusion felt almost timeless. That is, until Greg did this absolutely _sinful_ twisty thing with his tongue, dragging it over the roof of James' mouth. James couldn't stop the moan that rumbled through his chest. Finally responding, he pulled Greg closer, one hand going to his waist and the other threading through his hair. Greg shifted, bumping their thighs together (thank God James had sat down on his good side) and moved his own hands up, one resting on James' cheek, the other at the nape of his neck, his thumb rubbing a pattern under his friend's ear. He smiled into the kiss at the full body shudder he got in response to that.

After a few long moments of nipping, licking and sucking where James tried to give back as good as he'd gotten, Greg started to feel a crick in his neck. He tugged at James' shirt until he got the picture, moving to straddle Greg's lap, careful of his bad leg. They separated for a moment to take in deep gasps of air. James looked really good with his hair all disheveled, his eyes glazed and his lips swollen from kissing. Greg was about to comment on it (in a much more teasing manner, of course) when James dove back in, licking and scraping teeth down his friend's neck, ending with a _bite_ that had Greg gasping and arching up. The resulting press of groin against groin was enough to make both of them moan.

Greg pulled James up for another kiss as they both set up a rhythm. Well, James set up a rhythm and Greg sat back and enjoyed it. His leg was protesting a little bit, but he ignored it. There were much better things to focus on, anyway. Like running his hands down James' back and _squeezing _that ass that had been driving him crazy for months.

James let out a noise that could probably be classified as a whimper and pushed them closer together. He was still having problems believing this was actually happening. Just _kissing _Greg was doing more for him than actual sex had with several of his past affairs. The stubble and the clothed erection rubbing against his own were certainly different, but in a good way. They assured him that this was real, that that was a _man_ moving underneath his hands, that this was actually Greg he was making out with on the couch like they were horny teenagers. Finally, Greg pulled back with a gasp.

"Bedroom," he ground out, kneading at James' ass for a few more moments for emphasis, then pushing him slowly off his lap until he stood in front of the couch. Greg grabbed his cane and levered himself up, pulling James in with one arm to give him another quick and dirty kiss before he urged him towards the hallway.

James gave a slight smirk and started stripping as he walked in front of Greg. By the time he'd gotten to the bedroom door, he was dressed in nothing but his slacks and boxers. He paused for a moment to unzip and step out of the former before Greg caught up, following the trail of clothes.

"Show-off," Greg muttered before leaning down to bite at James' collarbone and tweak a nipple. James squeaked and Greg moved on to lave his neck with licks and kisses.

"You love it," he retorted a bit breathlessly.

"I'm going to ignore the absolute cliché that was that last statement," Greg said, pushing James into the room and onto the bed. He grinned. "And I never said I didn't."

* * *

CUT CUT CUT! 

Yeah. If you wanna read the whole scene, go use the link in my profile. Srsly.

* * *

James finished cleaning them both off as best he could and tossed the used tissues. He slumped down into the bed with a long sigh. They lay next to each other for a few silent moments, staring at the ceiling. 

"Holy shit," James finally murmured.

"That about sums it up," Greg agreed, his mouth quirking into a sardonic grin. "Not the _best_, but certainly admirable for a first time, especially considering that now there's practice and improvements to be made." James punched him in the shoulder.

"Bastard," he stated. Greg turned to look at him with a raised eyebrow.

"What, you thought that sex was going to turn me into a sappy, sentimental, cuddly teddy bear?"

"No, but I thought it might shut you up for a few minutes," James replied. Greg snorted.

"Wishful thinking."

"I'm nothing if not optimistic. Now shut up and go to sleep."

Greg hadn't really noticed how tired he actually was until James had said anything. He pulled the covers across them both and rolled over, closing his eyes as he listened to James' even breathing next to him. Since the sex was over, Greg didn't feel the need to pull James closer to him. Really.

There was about a half of a foot of space between them, but for some reason the space didn't seem like it was separating them so much as simply filling in the gap. Greg wondered what the hell that meant right before he drifted off to sleep.

And if they ended up sprawling together, limbs tangling sometime over the course of the night, neither one of them said anything about it in the morning.

* * *

A/N: Nope, it ain't over. Don't worry. Still a couple chapters to go at LEAST. The way it's shaping up, it looks like this thing will never. end. sigh GIMME A REVIEW PLZ:D 


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